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IN  MEMOR1AM 
BERNARD  MOSES 


MARRIAGE    OF    SHADOWS 


&c. 


MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 


BY 


MARGARET     VELEY 
// 


WITH    BIOGRAPHICAL     PREFACE 

BY 

LESLIE    STEPHEN 


PHILADELPHIA 
J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT     COMPANY 

1889 


BERNARD  MOSES 


TO    THE   FRIENDS   OF  MY  DEAR  DAUGHTER, 
MARGARET  VELEY. 

It  is  with  pleasure  and  sincere  gratitude  I  have  accepted  the  kind 
offer  of  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  to  preface  this  little  volume  of  Poems. 
I  have  done  the  very  best  I  could  for  it,  and  that  which  I  knoiv 
my  daughter  would  like  better  than  anything  else.  I  must  now 
leave  it  to  go  into  the  world  alone,  hoping  her  Friends  will  appre- 
ciate the  work  of  one  who  is  gone. 

Sophia   Veley. 

45  Matheson  Road,  Kensington,  1888. 


783714 


PREFACE. 

The  life  of  Margaret  Veley,  author  of  the  following 
poems,  was  quiet  and  uneventful.  Her  father,  Augustus 
Charles  Veley,  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  M.  de  Veley  who 
left  Switzerland  for  England  about  the  beginning  of  this 
century.  The  son  became  a  solicitor  in  Braintree,  Essex, 
where  he  was  entrusted  with  much  of  the  ecclesiastical 
business  of  the  district  and  was  on  friendly  terms  with 
many  of  the  clergy.  On  September  3,  1840,  he  married 
Sophia,  daughter  of  the  Reverend  Thomas  Ludbey,  for 
over  forty  years  (from  18 18  till  his  death  in  May  1859) 
rector  of  Cranham.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Veley  had  four 
daughters,  of  whom  Margaret,  the  second,  was  born 
May  12,  1843.  The  sisters  received  an  education  of  the 
usual  kind  from  governesses  and  masters  j  and  Margaret 
passed  one  term  at  Queen's  College,  Tufnell  Park.  She 
became  a  good  French  scholar.  She  and  her  elder 
sister  competed  for  prizes  in  composition  offered  by  a 


viii  PREFACE 

French  educational  journal.  Although  she  won  no  prizes, 
she  often  obtained  honourable  mention.  She  became 
so  familiar  with  the  language  that  her  companions  on  a 
foreign  tour  found  it  impossible  to  puzzle  her  by  asking 
her  for  the  names  of  out-of-the-way  objects.  She  rarely 
ventured  to  talk  French,  but  she  was  fond  of  the  litera- 
ture and  very  familiar  with  many  of  the  best  modern 
writers,  poets,  novelists,  and  critics.  She  began  to  write 
English  verse  at  an  early  age.  Some  specimens  are 
preserved  among  her  papers.  A  little  religious  poem  is 
dated  just  before  her  fourteenth  birthday  j  and  others  of 
a  similar  character  follow.  At  a  rather  later  date  she 
ventures  upon  a  mock-heroic  legend  of  the  '  Blue 
Princess,'  suggested  by  the  contagious  qualities  of  the 
dye  of  a  friend's  dress.  The  Princess  has  begged  the 
gift  of  learning  from  a  fairy  godmother,  who  has  an  old- 
fashioned  antipathy  to  'blue'  ladies  ;  and  spitefully  im- 
parts the  gift  not  only  in  an  allegorical  but  in  a  literal 
sense,  with  ingenious  and  disastrous  consequences. 
Miss  Veley  says  in  one  of  her  letters  that  to  publish  a 
book  had  been  among  her  day-dreams  even  in  her 
nursery.  She  taught  in  a  Sunday-school  and  had  great 
power  of  attracting  the  affections  of  her  pupils.  Some 
of  them  continued  to  write  to  her  about  their  plans  and 
prospects  long  after  they  had  left  the  place.  She  gave 
up  teaching  upon  the  advent  of  a  new  clergyman,  whose 


PREFACE  ix 

views  differed  so  much  from  her  own  that  cordial  co- 
operation became  impossible.  Miss  Veley  had  reached 
conclusions  very  different  from  those  which  naturally 
found  favour  with  the  home  circle.  She  was  a  very 
decided  liberal  both  in  political  and  religious  matters. 
Her  singularly  modest  and  retiring  character  prevented 
her  from  ever  putting  forward  her  views  in  an  aggressive 
fashion.  She  remained  upon  the  most  affectionate  terms 
with  persons  from  whose  views  she  entirely  dissented. 
Her  divergence  from  the  conservative  and  high-church 
principles  of  her  closest  connections  showed  the  real 
independence  of  thought  which  was  generally  concealed 
by  her  extreme  gentleness  of  manner. 

Her  first  published  poem,  called  '  Michaelmas  Daisies,' 
appeared  in  the  'Spectator'  of  April  1870.  In  the 
September  of  the  same  year  a  short  story  called  '  Milly's 
First  Love'  appeared  in  'B.ackwood's  Magazine,' 
which  has  so  often  given  the  first  welcome  to  literary 
talent.  A  considerable  interval,  however,  elapsed  before 
the  next  publication.  She  always  wrote  slowly  and  with 
most  conscientious  workmanship.  Part  of  the  time  was 
occupied  in  the  composition  of  '  For  Percival '  (begun 
in  March  1872)  and  of  most  of  the  poems  collected  in 
this  volume.  I  gather,  too,  that  she  had  to  undergo  a 
disappointment  about  a  short  story  which  failed  to  win 
immediate  favour  from  an  editor.    Her  extreme  diffidence 


x  PREFACE 

made  her  sensitive  in  such  matters.  She  believed,  as 
she  said,  in  failure  more  easily  than  success  ;  though  she 
was  not  so  much  discouraged  by  criticism  as  incited  to 
take  more  pains  to  avoid  the  alleged  defects.  Her  poem 
the  '  Japanese  Fan '  appeared  in  the  '  Cornhill  Magazine 
for  September  1876.  I  was  then  editor,  and  she  sent 
me  the  poem  with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  her 
friend,  Mr.  Meredith  Townshend,  for  whose  services  in 
the  way  of  literary  advice  and  encouragement  she  often 
expressed  her  gratitude.  This  was  followed  by  '  Lizzie's 
Bargain,'  which  appeared  in  the  '  Cornhill '  of  May  and 
June  1877  ;  and  by  her  longer  story  '  For  Percival,'  which 
appeared  in  the  same  magazine  September  1877  to 
December  1878.  This  novel  appeared  (and  still  appears) 
to  me  to  be  marked  by  very  rare  qualities  which  are  not 
always  to  be  found  in  more  popular  novels.  It  had  true 
literary  distinction  :  a  graceful,  clear,  and  pointed  style, 
a  strong  sense  of  humour,  and  a  keen  perception  of 
character  approached  by  few  of  her  contemporaries.  It 
excited  much  interest,  and  I  fancy  would  have  been 
still  more  successful  if  it  had  possessed  some  more 
commonplace  attractions.  The  end  was  painful,  whereas 
most  readers — and  I  do  not  say  that  they  are  wrong — 
like  things  to  be  made  pleasant.  A  dismissal  of  the 
characters  to  general  happiness  would  have  been  out  of 
harmony  with  the  melancholy  tone  of  the  whole  story. 


PREFACE  xi 

The  book,  however,  was  warmly  welcomed  by  many 
readers  and  brought  to  her  some  valuable  friendships. 
Mr.  Luke  Ionides  introduced  himself  by  an  appreciative 
letter  to  the  unknown  author ;  and  she  ever  afterwards 
reckoned  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ionides  among  her  most  at- 
tached friends. 

Many  domestic  troubles  saddened  some  years  of  her 
life.  The  sister  next  to  her  in  age,  Mrs.  Holmes,  was 
sent  to  Penzance  in  1876  for  her  health,  and  Miss  Veley 
nursed  her  through  an  illness  which  terminated  fatally  in 
July  1877.  Their  father  died  on  January  19,  1879.  The 
other  sisters  were  married,  and  Miss  Veley,  with  her 
mother,  decided  to  leave  Braintree  for  London,  where  she 
made  her  home  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  The  delicacy  of 
her  youngest  sister,  Constance,  who  in  1878  had  married 
Mr.  Alfred  E.  Warner,  enforced  journeys  in  search  of 
health.  Mrs.  and  Miss  Veley  accompanied  her  to  Switzer- 
land and  the  Riviera  ;  but  she  became  decidedly  worse 
in  1884,  and  afterwards  remained  in  London,  where  she 
was  nursed  by  her  sister  until  her  death  in  May  1885. 

The  shadow  of  these  sorrows  may  be  traced  in  Miss 
Veley 'slater  writings.  '  Mrs.  Austin  appeared  in  the  '  Corn- 
hill  'of  April  and  May  1880;  {  Damocles  'in  the  '  Cornhill ' 
of  February  to  December  1882;  * Mitchelhurst  Place' 
in  '  Macmillan's  Magazine '  of  1884;  {  A  Garden  of  Memo- 
ries' in  the  'English  Illustrated  Magazine 'of  July,  August, 


xii  PREFACE 

and  September  1886;  and  'Twice  by  the  Sea'  in  the 
1  Hourglass  '  of  July  1887. 

During  her  life  in  London,  Miss  Veley  became  known 
to  a  much  larger  circle  capable  of  sympathising  with  her 
literary  tastes  than  could  be  found  in  the  country  town 
where  she  had  passed  the  first  thirty-five  years  of  her  life. 
She  was  not  quite  in  her  element  in  general  society. 
She  was  constitutionally  shy,  even  to  a  painful  degree, 
and  the  shyness  was  probably  intensified  by  extreme 
shortsightedness.  She  began,  too,  with  a  large  share 
of  that  awe  for  literary  luminaries,  even  when  not  of  the 
first  order  of  magnitude,  which  is  natural  before  one  has 
been  admitted  behind  the  scenes.  New  acquaintance 
had  to  begin  by  a  process  of  breaking  the  ice,  which 
might  possibly  form  again  before  another  interview.  But 
with  a  few  thoroughly  sympathetic  friends,  this  obstacle 
disappeared  from  the  first ;  and,  to  all  who  met  her,  the 
shyness  was  felt  as  an  appeal  for  considerate  treatment 
and  gave  to  intercourse  with  her  the  charm  of  the 
gradual  and  timid  revelation  of  a  strong  intellectual  and 
moral  nature.  In  my  own  relations  to  her  as  editor  of 
some  of  her  writings,  I  was  afraid  to  offer  advice,  not  lest 
it  should  be  rejected,  but  lest  it  should  be  too  respect- 
fully entertained.  The  only  advice  which  I  could  really 
offer — perhaps  it  is  all  the  advice  that  can  be  judiciously 
offered  to  any  one — was  that  she  should  be  herself.     And, 


PREFACE  xiii 

indeed,  though  she  was  singularly  amenable  to  criticism 
and  perhaps  too  easily  depressed,  she  did  not  yield  until 
her  judgment  was  convinced;  and  her  aims  were  too 
clearly  defined  to  be  easily  diverted  in  essential  matters. 
I  must  add  that  she  received  well-meant  suggestions  with 
more  than  good  nature,  with  a  gratitude  which  was  only 
too  full  a  repayment  of  the  intended  service.  She  had 
too  much  magnanimity  and  was  too  completely  free  from 
vanity  to  be  touchy,  although  she  might  be  sensitive 
under  criticism  ;  and,  as  one  of  her  feminine  friends  re- 
marks to  me,  had  the  strong  sense  of  justice  in  which  her 
sex  is  generally  said  to  be  deficient.  She  was  incapable 
of  any  petty  resentment  or  of  an  exaggerated  estimate  of 
her  own  claims. 

I  must  mention  one  minor  virtue  in  which  she  was 
pre-eminent.  I  have  seen  many  handwritings  in  the 
course  of  my  experience  as  an  editor;  but  never  one 
equal  to  hers.  It  was  firm,  large,  and  as  legible  as  print, 
and  yet  full  of  character  and  delicacy.  She  used  to  send 
verses  to  her  friends  upon  their  birthdays  or  similar 
occasions,  written  upon  Christmas  cards  in  this  exquisite 
hand  which  made  them  real  works  of  art.  I  give  one  or 
two  specimens  of  these  little  poems,  which  will  prove,  I 
think,  that  the  charm  was  not  confined  to  the  calligraphy. 

Miss  Veley  was  gaining  a  stronger  hold  upon  the 
affections  of  all  her  acquaintance  ;   and  even  her  less 


xiv  PREFACE 

intimate  friends  were  hoping  that  the  reserve  which  still 
remained  was  gradually  thawing.  The  last  occasion  en 
which  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  was  in  the  summer 
of  1887,  and  I  was  then  struck  by  the  animation  and 
point  with  which  she  discussed  some  literary  topics  with 
a  young  American  admirer  of  her  books.  After  recover- 
ing from  the  depression  produced  by  the  long  attendance 
upon  her  sister's  death-bed  she  had  again  settled  to  literary 
work,  and  was  writing  a  novel,  which,  as  she  promised  her 
friends,  was  to  have  a  cheerful  catastrophe.  She  had 
shown  symptoms  of  delicacy  and  had  never  been  robust. 
No  alarm,  however,  had  suggested  itself  to  her  friends, 
who  were  shocked  by  the  news  of  her  death  on  December 
7,  1887,  after  a  yery  short  illness,  caused  by  a  chill  and 
ending  in  an  affection  of  the  throat.  She  was  buried  on 
December  10,  in  Braintree  Cemetery  by  the  side  of  her 
father  and  her  sister  Alice.  Her  mother  and  her  elder 
sister,  Mrs.  Webb,  survive. 

The  unfinished  novel  just  mentioned  was  to  be 
another  sketch  of  the  country  life  which  she  knew  so 
well.  She  had  made  a  careful  outline  of  the  whole  story 
with  dates  and  genealogical  relations  clearly  plotted  out. 
She  had  finished  the  first  volume,  and  the  fragment  shows, 
I  think,  that  her  powers  were  still  ripening,  although  it  is 
too  incomplete  and  too  much  in  the  nature  of  an  intro- 
duction to  justify  publication.     Her  thorough  workman- 


PREFACE  xv 

ship  made  rapid  execution  impossible  ;  and  her  perfect 
handwriting  suggests  that  she  never  hurried  even  in  her 
letters.  She  could  not  be  slovenly.  She  was  never 
satisfied  until  she  had  gained  all  possible  clearness  of 
definition  in  her  thought  as  in  her  manual  work.  She 
was  in  this  respect  in  sympathy  with  the  French  writers 
whose  congenial  qualities  she  appreciated  so  keenly.  In 
English,  she  especially  admired  George  Eliot,  Thackeray, 
and  Miss  Austen,  the  last  of  whom  she  preferred  to  Scott. 
An  old  friend,  Mr.  Lewis  Day,  has  shown  me  acurious  little 
controversy  which  they  conducted  upon  post-cards  as  to 
the  rival  claims  of  '  realism  '  and  '  idealism.'  It  was  an  ex- 
cellent plan  apparently  for  securing  a  condensed  state- 
ment of  the  points  at  issue  ;  but  condensation  generally 
involves  a  little  obscurity.  A  phrase  or  two  will  indicate 
her  view  sufficiently.  '  I  do  think,'  she  says,  ■  that  a  man 
should  aim  at  simply  reproducing  the  facts  of  nature,  as 
he  sees  them,  in  bis  work.  Men  see  things  so  differently 
that  the  most  literal  transcript  is  sure  to  be  a  revelation 
to  his  fellow  men.  The  more  literal  the  transcript,  the 
greater  the  revelation.'  Realism  has,  she  thinks,  the 
charm  '  of  representing  the  apparently  hap-hazard  com- 
plexity of  life  which  seems  to  have  forced  itself  upon  the 
modern  mind.  Some  of  us  would  rather  have  even 
broken  and  confused  reflections  of  the  great  real  world, 
than  the  prettiest  little  worlds  the  idealists  can  arrange 

a 


xvi  PREFACE 

for  us.'  '  If  the  order  and  repose  '  (of  the  idealist)  '  are 
more  than  are  truly  consistent  with  the  weakness  and 
inevitable  miseries  of  human  life,  it  seems  to  me  very 
like  consoling  oneself  for  the  earthiness  of  the  globe  by 
blowing  pretty  soap  bubbles.  ...  I  want  what  gives  me  a 
sense  of  reality.'  To  the  objection  that  realism  means 
commonplace,  she  replies :  '  I  see  no  redemption  from 
commonplace,  except  by  the  teaching  that  the  springs  of 
tears  and  laughter  and  deepest  tenderness  break  forth  in 
the  very  midst  of  the  vast  commonplaces  of  life.' 

Her  novels  were  realistic  in  this  sense,  which 
might  have  been  adopted  by  her  beloved  Miss  Austen. 
They  were  meant  to  give  an  accurate  portraiture  of  life 
as  she  saw  it.  But  her  novels  were  not  merely  photo- 
graphic reproductions  of  the  first  scenes  that  came  to 
hand.  They  are  always  embodiments  of  some  genuine 
idea.  After  discussing  one  of  her  stories  she  adds  : 
'  And  then  came  the  inevitable  problem,  without  which 
I  have  hitherto  been  unable  to  get  on.  Was  such  a 
renunciation  as  Lizzie's  right  ?  I  don't  solve  my  pro- 
blems, unluckily— at  least  I  only  partially  solve  them.' 
The  reason,  perhaps,  generally  seems  to  be  that  in  this 
1  haphazard '  world  the  only  solution  which  she  can  see 
involves  the  self-sacrifice  of  some  generous  nature  to  the 
happiness  of  more  commonplace  people.  The  sadness 
which  she  had  to  experience  is  reflected  in  her  fiction 


PREFACE  xvii 

where  some  unlucky  combination  of  circumstances  is 
generally  too  much  for  noble  aspirations.  But  her  view 
of  life,  if  mournful,  is  anything  but  cynical.  Her  world 
has  got  into  awkward  complications  ;  but  she  takes  the 
view  of  the  kindly  humorist  who  admits  that  there  is 
something  perverse  about  the  fates,  but  seeks  for  con- 
solation not  in  a  blind  sentimentalism  but  in  dwelling 
upon  the  fine  qualities  brought  out  by  misery  and 
discord. 

Miss  Veley  had  carefully  revised  her  poems,  and 
discussed  them  with  very  intelligent  self-criticism.  Al- 
though some  of  them  show  the  same  qualities  as  her 
prose,  they  also  reveal  a  very  different  side  of  her  nature. 
She  observes,  in  reference  to  the  obvious  remark  that 
there  is  '  too  much  sadness  '  in  her  poetry :  '  I  should 
write  more  of  the  brighter  poems,  perhaps,  if  I  did  not 
write  any  prose.  It  is  not  that  I  think  the  brighter 
thoughts  less  fit  for  poetry,  but  rather  that  I  think  the 
sadder  ones  less  fit  for  prose.  All  my  feelings  of  awe 
and  doubt  and  wonder,  and  all  my  longings  to  get  down 
to  the  heart  of  things  seem  to  me  to  find  far  deeper  and 
truer  expression  in  verse.  Is  it  that  they  want  to  be 
set  to  music  in  some  way  ?  Besides,  I  can  say  in  verse 
what  I  could  not  say  in  prose.'  Another  passage  may 
serve  as  a  comment  on  some  poems,  and  as  a  proof 
of  the   careful    thinking-out   of  her  expression.       Her 


xviii  PREFACE 

correspondent  had  proposed  to  alter  the  following  pas- 
sage in  ■  A  Shadow  on  the  Dial  : ' 

I  gain  a  glimpse  of  something  more  than  joy 
Higher  than  rapture,  distant  as  a  star, 
A  time  beyond  all  time,  a  steadfast  gaze 
And  an  abiding  thought,  when  my  weak  heart, 
Lifted  above  self-consciousness,  shall  beat 
In  unison  with  His. 

It  was  proposed  to  substitute  'a  thought  that  still 
abides.'  She  explains  :  '  In  my  idea,  the  thought  has 
no  connection  with  the  act  of  hoping  here  ;  it  is  what  I 
hope  for  hereafter.  The  steadfast  gaze  and  abiding 
thought  make — as  far  as  I  can  at  present  see — my  dim 
idea  of  the  goal  I  hope  to  reach.  One  gets  glimpses  now 
of  beauty  and  perfection — of  God— but  one  can't  look 
long — the  poorest  and  meanest  things  have  power  to  dis- 
tract one,  even  apart  from  imperfection  and  dimness  of 
vision.  So  I  long  for  "a  steadfast  gaze."  And,  though 
there  is  no  such  happiness  here  as  the  feeling  of  light 
dawning  on  one's  mind,  new  ideas  flowing  in,  new  cer- 
tainty that  all  is  good,  it  needs  an  effort.  One  can 
climb  a  mountain  on  whose  summit  one  could  not  live  ; 
one  reads  slight  and  worthless  things  for  rest ;  but  I 
look  for  a  time  when  I  shall  not  be  weary  and  dull,  nor 
incapable  of  grasping  the  ideas  I  need,  nor  painfully 
limited.     Only  fancy — an  abiding  thought,  an  ever- widen- 


PREFACE  xix 

ing  universe  round  one  ! '  She  then  alters  the  phrase  to 
1  an  ever- widening  thought.'  Speaking  of  another  phrase 
in  the  same  poem, 

There  is  no  death— life  only ;  death  is  nought, 
she  says  :  *  Again,  I  meant  the  words  literally^  as  "  an 
abstract  assertion."  Doubts  of  immortality,  ordinary  ideas 
as  to  what  may  follow  our  dying — absence  of  definite 
knowledge  as  to  what  may  follow  on  the  other  side  of 
the  grave — make  Death  terrible.  But  I  was  fancying  that 
to  this  man,  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  the  incident  of 
being  transferred  from  one  stage  of  existence  to  another 
would  fall  into  its  place,  merely  as  an  incident  in  his/tfe.' 
I  will  not  add  any  remarks  of  my  own,  which  would, 
I  think,  be  impertinent  to  any  sympathetic  reader. 

A  good  many  letters  have  been  sent  to  me  by  Miss 
Veley's  friends,  and  they  show  abundantly  the  tenderness, 
the  sympathy  with  sorrow,  and  the  warm  gratitude  for 
all  friendly  recognition,  which  gave  her  a  peculiar  place 
in  their  affections.  Her  death  seems  to  have  affected 
all  who  knew  her  with  a  special  sense  of  loss.  I  do  not 
think,  however,  that  any  long  quotations  would  be 
desirable  in  this  brief  notice  ;  and  I  will  only  add  a 
passage  or  two  to  illustrate  the  rather  grave  and  gentle 
humour,  which  was  very  characteristic  and  came  out 
especially  in  her  playful  relations  with  children.  This, 
for  example,  is  a  history  of  certain  cats  in  whom  a  young 


xx  PREFACE 

friend  of  hers  was  interested  : — '  L.  and  I,'  she  says, 
'have  been  weighing  them.  That  is  to  say,  L.  went 
down  in  the  dead  of  night  among  the  beetles,  and 
single-handed  he  grappled  with  Zo(roaster),  and  weighed 
him  :  2  lbs.  9  oz.  Then  he  wanted  me  to  go  down 
with  him  and  weigh  Cy(rus).  I  went.  We  got  out  all 
the  weights  in  the  house,  and  a  flat  iron  j  but  we  needn't 
have  bothered  about  that  :  he  just  didn't  weigh  all  the 
weights — i.e.  he  was  about  7  lbs.  15  ozs.  when  we  added 
them  all  up.  Then  we  metaphorically  turned  up  our 
sleeves,  looked  at  each  other,  and  went  for  Thomas 
Claudius.     He  weighed  : — 

1  violent  scrimmage, 

1  scratch  (/had  that). 

1  scale  kicked  out  of  its  place,  and  clattering  in 

the  silence  of  the  night. 
1  tempestuous  departure  through  the  doorway. 

I  haven't  added  these  up  ;  so  I  can't  exactly  tell  what 
they  amount  to. 

•  I  wish  Cy  and  T.  C.  D.  wouldn't  think  my  sunflowers 
ought  to  be  sat  on  like  eggs  ...  As  for  Zo  he  is  simply 
and  literally  "  the  Desolator,"  as  Byron  has  it  .  .  .  When 
I  was  planting  out  seedling  asters  the  other  evening,. in  a 
hurry,  because  the  light  was  failing,  he  said  quite  dis- 
tinctly, "  A  Zoro-aster  is  better  than  a  China-aster  any 


PREFACE  xxi 

day,"  and  proceeded  to  plant  himself  in  every  hole  in 
turn.  Being  with  difficulty  uprooted,  he  climbed  and 
bounced  about  till  the  next  hole  was  ready.' 

In  another  note  she  gives  an  analysis  of  the  same 
garden.     'There  are  in  ioo  parts  : 

Stones  (say) 76 

Potsherds,  brickbats,  bones,  bits  of  glass,  and 
a  rusty  iron  bar  which  L.  dug  up  (say)        .    14 

Worms,  grubs,  &c. 7 

Bits  of  newspaper,  and  varied  rubbish  always 
mysteriously  arriving.  Think  they  grow, 
but  about 2 

And  there  you  are.  I  don't  go  in  for  infinitesimal  traces 
of  things.  I'm  only  a  beginner,  you  see  ;  but  I  call  this 
a  good  bold  analysis  in  round  numbers.  If  you  add  it  up 
you'll  find  it  comes  to  just  100 — no,  it  doesn't,  it  comes 
to  99.  What  little  trifle  have  I  forgotten?  Well,  it  can't 
much  matter,  can  it  ?  .  .  .  O,  but  I  have  it  : 

Earth 1 

That's  it.     Now  it's  all  right.' 

And  this  is  a  little  specimen  of  an  Alpine  adventure. 
Her  companion's  aunt  wanted  a  particular  kind  of 
gentian.  '  We  could  have  accommodated  her  with  a  cart- 
load of  almost  anything  else,  but  that  we  could  not  find, 
and  everything  was  dripping  wet,  everywhere.     I  have 


xxii  PREFACE 

seldom  seen  anything  more  pathetic  than  A.  standing 
in  the  middle  of  a  flowery,  grassy,  boggy,  Alpine  slope, 
very  anxious  to  get  back  to  dry  ground,  but  restrained  by 
a  noble  sense  of  duty  to  his  aunts  and  conscientiously 
examining  every  bluebell  or  harebell,  of  which  there  were 
at  least  50,000  round  him.  Harebells  here  do  grow 
abominably  blue  when  you  are  looking  for  gentians.  I — 
with  the  water  running  into  my  boots— admired  him. 
We  never  got  our  gentian  after  all  !  He  found  one, 
which  I  would  not  let  him  dig  up,  because  it  wasn't  the 
right  sort ;  afterwards  it  turned  out  that  it  was  a  much 
rarer  one  and  ought  to  have  been  secured  at  any  cost  ! 
Then  we  encountered  a  Swiss  wayfarer  of  ferocious 
aspect,  whose  clothing  was  mainly  constructed  of  holes, 
with  just  stuff  enough  to  keep  them  apart,  and  whose 
portable  property  consisted  solely  of  a  large  knife.  As 
he  amiably  wished  us  good  morning,  we  hoped  that  he 
was  really  pleasanter  than  he  looked,  and  perhaps  only 
intended  to  cut  wood— in  which  case  of  course  he 
couldn't  help  his  knife,  and  it  wasn't  fair  to  judge  him 
by  it.  At  that  rate,  I  suppose,  in  a  lonely  woodland  spot, 
one  might  misunderstand  Mr.  Gladstone  ! ' 

Her  letters  are  full  of  such  humorous  descriptions  of 
little  adventures,  mixed  with  remarks  upon  the  scenery, 
and  upon  cathedrals  and  pictures,  in  which  she  took  a  keen 
and  intelligent  interest.     I  will  only  venture  to  add  a 


PREFACE  xxiii 

quotation  bearing  upon  one  of  her  poems,  the  ■  Level 
Land.'  She  was  uncomfortable  at  having  used  the  poeti- 
cally commonplace  flowers,  amaranth  and  asphodel,  and 
looked  them  out  in  a  French  dictionary.  (  And  they 
said  that  amaranth  was  "  Love  lies  bleeding  ! "  "  Prince's 
feather  "  &c.  Milton's  angels  crowned  with  that !  .  .  .  I 
attacked  a  book  in  thirty-six  volumes  on  English  botany 
and  hunted  up  a  wild  amaranth.  And  Milton's  amaranth 
grows  "  hard  by  the  tree  of  life,"  if  I  remember  right.  The 
description  of  my  wild  amaranth  began  :  "  This  dunghill 
plant  grows  chiefly  in  the  neighbourhood  of  London '  !  ! 
Coming  down  in  the  world,  amaranth  appears  to  have 
acquired  low  tastes.'  She  is  reminded  of  '  Moly '  of  which 
she  used  to  read  in  Pope's  'Odyssey,'  and  looks  it  up  '  for 
old  acquaintance  sake.  Horror  !  These  four  authorities, 
all  I  consulted,  were  unanimous.  It  is  a  wild  garlic,  with 
yellow  flowers  !  After  that  .  .  .  I  can  but  hope  the  Lotos- 
eaters  lay  very  still  ;  for  the  only  wild  garlic  I  know,  if 
crushed  .  .  .  Asphodel  is  better,  though  it  was  a  shock 
to  me  to  learn  that  it  has  a  nutritive  and  medicinal  root, 
shaped  like  a  small  turnip  !  I  don't  know  what  that  signi- 
fies, and  they  call  it  "  King's  spear,"  which  I  don't  dislike. 
Strictly  speaking,  the  correct  asphodel  is  rather  a  stiff 
spear,  with  smallish  flowers,  golden  yellow,  a  little  some- 
thing of  brownish  gold  in  it,  at  intervals  up  it.  ...  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  know  no  more  of  amaranths 

*b 


xxiv  PREFA  CE 

and  asphodel  than  I  did  before,  since  the  poets' flowers — 
Mr.  Tennyson's  for  instance — are  evidently  not  related  to 
their  earthly  namesakes.' 

In  all  her  letters  I  have  not  seen  a  single  phrase  of 
unkind  or  even  sarcastic  tendency,  although  she  has  to 
mention  some  experiences  which  might  have  justified  irri- 
tation. They  show  a  most  tender  and  affectionate  nature, 
bearing  grief  and  disappointment  bravely  and  tenderly, 
welcoming  all  kindnesses  with  warm  goodwill,  and  light- 
ing up  little  annoyances  with  a  play  of  gentle  humour. 

I  must  offer  my  thanks  to  Miss  Veley's  intimate 
friends,  especially  Mrs.  Luke  Ionides,  Mrs.  Macquoid, 
and  Mr.  Lewis  Day,  who  have  given  me  every  informa- 
tion in  their  power.  Mrs.  Veley  has  entrusted  me  with 
the  duty  of  editing  these  poems,  as  a  last  memorial  of 
the  remarkable  talent  of  the  daughter  who  was  never 
separated  from  her  through  life. 

I  have  also  to  thank  the  proprietors  of  the  '  Cen- 
tury,5 '  Harper's  Magazine,'  '  Macmillan's  Magazine,'  the 
'  Spectator,' and  the  'Bairns'  Annual'  for  permission  to 
publish  the  poems  which  first  appeared  in  their  pages. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  Marriage  of  Shadows i 

A  Shadow  on  the  Dial 30 

The  Level  Land 48 

Out  of  the  Darkness 54 

A  Japanese  Fan 69 

The  Unknown  Land 79 

A  Lutanist 86 

A  Game  of  Piquet 89 

First  or  Last? 94 

A  Dream  of  Life  and  Death 98 

A  Student 103 

Private  Theatricals 105 

Of  the  Past    . 112 

A  Town  Garden 115 

Almond  Blossom 117 


xxvi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

October 119 

Three  Poems  from  '  Mitchelhurst  Place:'  'At  her 

Piano,'  'Autumn  Berries,'  'A  Sonnet'  .        .        .  120 

A  Wish 124 

Mother  and  Child 125 

Michaelmas  Daisies 129 

A  Closed  Book 131 

A  Birthday  Wish 134 

'Ere  Yet,  Old  Year' 136 

'Sweet  Sister  Mine,  I  Fain  would  have  you  Look'  137 

'It  was  the  Heart  of  Summer  when'    .        .        .     .  138 

'  I  Buy  my  Card,  and  find  thereon  : '  A  Christmas 

Card 139 

His  Calendar 140 

One  of  the  Multitude 142 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS. 
PROLOGUE. 

Round  the  flickering  fire  of  life,  in  the  dusky  border- 
land, 

Between  the  gloom  and  the  glow,  the  wavering  shadows 
stand. 

Silent  for  evermore  they  lie  in  wait  for  our  eyes, 
And  he  who  has  looked  on  them  once  shall  see  them 
until  he  dies. 

The  runner  carries  his  torch,  he  is  glad  at  heart  to  see 
The  triumph  of  golden  light,  whence  the  parting  shadows 
flee. 

He  runs  with  his  face  aglow,  the  flame  flies  out  on  the 
wind, 

And  the  scoffing  shadow  shapes  exult  as  they  leap  be- 
hind. 


2  A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

Short  is  the  life  of  man  ere  he  draws  the  evil  lot, 
Then  must  he  die  with  the  day,  and  the  morrow  behold 
him  not. 

To  the  silent  Valley  he  comes,  where,  drifted  under  the 

steeps, 
Are  the  sands  of  lives  run  out,  in  dead,  forgotten  heaps. 

There  is  none  at  hand  to  help  ;  the  desert  earth  of  his 

bed 
Is  marked  with  the  treading  of  feet,  but  they  that  have 

trodden  are  dead. 

He  lies   with  his  face  to   the  East,   while   out   of  the 

vanished  years 
Come  the  shadows  of  bygone  days,  the  shadows  of  hopes 

and  fears. 

The  shadows  of  things  unknown,  that  stir  in  the  gulf  of 

the  night, 
That  float  on  the  waveless  tide,  and  sink  ere  the  morning 

light. 

The  shadows  of  passing  thoughts,  the  shadows  of  ill 

deeds  done, 
That  stand  for  a  terrible  sign  between  his  soul  and  the  sun. 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS  3 

And  last,  in  their  glory  and  grace,  in  a  haze  of  splendour 

seen, 
Come  the   shadows,  saddest  of  all,  from  the  Land  of 

Might  Have  Been. 

They  fade  in   the  far  off  sky,   they  never  shall  come 

again, 
And  the  beauty  of  hopeless  dreams  is  bitterer  far  than 

pain. 

1 1  have  done  with  shadows,'  he   cries,  ■  let   them  pass 

from  my  weary  heart, 
In  the  West  is  the  face  of  Death,  I  will  see  his  face  and 

depart.' 

What  man  has  seen  his  face  ?    Over  the  drifts  of  the 

sand 
Lengthens   the  Shadow  of  Death,  uplifting  a  shadowy 

hand. 


b  2 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 


I. 

SUNSET. 

An  arch  of  cloudless  sky 
Rises  above  a  town  of  ancient  name  ; 

Across  its  dome 

The  birds  fly  home, 
And  all  the  West  is  burning  with  slow  flame, 

For  night  is  nigh. 
Against  the  sunset  fires, 

In  broken  ranks, 
Gables  and  slender  spires 
Stand  black  and  crowded  on  the  river's  banks  ; 
And  a  great  bridge  is  lifted  up  on  high 

Above  the  rippling  tide, 
Where  laden  vessels  spread  their  wings  and  sail 

O'er  waters  wide. 
Out  of  the  Eastern  region,  pure  and  pale, 

The  silver  flood 
Comes,  murmuring  softly  of  a  thousand  rills 

From  shadowy  hills, 
But,  like  a  chronicle  of  conquering  pride, 
Ends  in  imperial  splendour  red  as  blood. 


A   MARRIAGE  OF  SHADOWS  5 

High  stands  the  bridge,  while  far  below 
The  river,  winding  round  the  weedy  piles, 
Whispers,  embracing  them.     Its  onward  flow 
Breaks  in  unchanging  curves,  like  carven  smiles, 
And  strains  with  snake-like  force,  and  seeks  their 
overthrow. 

Across  the  sunlit  height 
Pass  and  repass  the  throng 
Of  men  who  go  their  way— the  western  light 
Bright  on  their  living  faces — side  by  side 

With  shadows  grey  and  long. 
With  slim  fantastic  shapes  that  slip  and  glide, 

Follow  and  run, 
That  lurk,  and  waver  in  uncertain  flight 
And  fear  the  sun. 

But  one  man  stands  apart, 
And  facing  all  the  glory  of  the  skies, 
Broods  o'er  an  evil  world  that  lies 

Within  his  heart. 
Shadows  and  men  alike  before  him  pass 
As  nought,  as  dim  reflections  in  a  glass, 
As  idle  shifting  figures  in  a  dream. 
Unheeded,  as  the  sunlit  ripples  roll, 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

They  come  and  go, 

A  living  stream, 
In  long  procession  linked  against  the  glow. 
Empty  and  vain  to  him  the  boundless  heavens  seem, 
Vain  all  the  glory  of  the  golden  rays, 

While  with  an  inward  gaze 
Darkly  intent  he  shapes  a  narrow  scheme. 

But  lightly  on  his  face 
Does  one  fair  shadow  fall, 
Lingers  a  moment  on  his  mouth,  close-lipped — 

Glides  all  unheeded  to  his  breast 
As  if  she  sought  his  heart  for  resting-place 

And  end  of  all — 

Then,  as  from  mouth  to  heart  she  slipped, 

Falls  downward,  mute  and  sweet 

Even  to  his  feet, 

Touching  the  darkness  of  his  shadow,  pressed 

Against  the  wall. 

Thus  do  the  shadows  meet, 
Yet  she  who  passes  him  is  worlds  away 

In  her  pure  loveliness. 
As  though  she  were  the  queen  of  some  pale  star, 
Alone,  afar, 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS  J 

Set  high  for  worship  if  too  high  to  bless, 
Golden  amid  the  dusk  of  dying  day. 

As  she  goes  by  the  hearts  of  men  awake, 
Leaving  their  selfish  joy  and  selfish  grief 

For  her  fair  sake, 
Rising  at  sight  of  her  to  nobler  thought, 

Even  as  the  sap 
Flows  at  the  touch  of  spring  to  flower  and  leaf — 
But  this  one  man  sees  nought. 

Yet — does  he  move  in  sullen  weariness  ? 

Or  pricked  by  venomed  sting 
Of  some  remembered  folly  or  mishap  ? 
Or  in  the  windings  of  his  sorry  plot, 
Perceive  the  goal,  and  stand  prepared  to  spring  ? 

This  I  know  not, 

But  none  the  less 
When  glides  from  him  that  slender  shade  of  hers 

His  shadow  stirs. 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 


II. 

THE   LAND   OF   SHADOWS. 

Night  comes  and  lays  her  hand 
Upon  the  brows  and  eyes  of  toiling  men — 
Why  should  they  longer  seek  to  understand  ? 
She  folds  the  world  in  darkness — wherefore  keep 
A  weary  flame,  a  point  of  wakeful  pain, 
To  fret  her  dewy  stillness  cool  and  deep  ? 

They  yield  their  souls  to  sleep, 
Nor  know  that  then 
Through  universal  dusk  of  hill  and  plain 
Their  shadows  fly  afar  to  Shadowland. 

Dim  is  that  unknown  road  and  ashen-grey 

And  no  man  travels  it, 
Only  from  time  to  time  a  restless  crowd 
Of  shadows  flit 

Along  the  level  way, 
Mocking,  as  one  might  mock  who  laughed  aloud, 
Though  Death  itself  is  not  more  mute  than  they. 

Strange  is  that  road,  and  desolate, 
Narrow  as  Fate, 


A   MARRIAGE  OF  SHADOWS 

On  either  hand  lie  glimmering  plains  of  cloud 

Fading  afar  to  night ; 
Above,  a  starless  heaven  is  bowed, 
Whose  desert  height 

Is  pale  with  unknown  light. 

Strange  is  the  pathway — strange  the  final  shore — 
A  hollow  earthen-coloured  waste 
(That  might  be  a  forgotten  world 
From  life  and  splendour  hurled), 
Girt  by  a  mountain  range,  lies  low  for  evermore, 
Shrunken  and  dead. 
The  zone  of  barren  rock, 
Fantastic,  writhen,  tortured  as  with  fire, 
Cloven  by  unimaginable  shock, 

Shoots  up  in  pinnacle  and  spire 
Against  the  pallid  stillness  overhead. 
Within  its  stony  maze 
Are  narrow  valleys,  and  steep  ways, 

And  gulfs  that  sink 
Sheer  from  their  crumbling  brink, 
And  clefts  that  hold  a  darkness  so  intense, 

One  needs  must  think 
It  more  than  night  itself,  and  look  to  see 
Some  blackest  vision,  stirring  heavily 
Uprise  and  issue  thence. 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

Below  the  frowning  heights 
Barren,  far-reaching,  lies  the  level  plain, 
Alive  with  phantoms  that  in  circles  vain 
Dance  through  the  silence  of  the  windless  nights. 

Even  as  in  autumn-tide 
The  withered  leaves,  down  drifted  to  the  dust, 
Dance  to  an  eddying  gust. 

They  wheel  and  mingle  and  divide 
While  far  on  high 
Wild  meteors  flame  across  the  glimmering  sky 
To  perish  when  their  hasty  race  is  run. 
In  swift  pursuit  the  shadows  leap  and  fly 

Maddened  with  liberty, 
Mocking  the  memory  of  the  noonday  sun 
That  held  them  crouching  'neath  his  steadfast  eye. 


They  dance  for  ever  as  they  danced  that  night, 

When  the  red  sunset  light 
Had  faded  from  the  hills,  the  shore,  the  stream, 
From  the  wide  sky,  and  from  the  eyes  of  men. 

And,  mixing  in  their  flight 

The  queenly  shadow  passed 
That  on  the  bridge  at  eventide  was  cast, 

Fair  now  as  then. 
The  light  itself  could  scarcely  sweeter  seem, 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS  n 

And  swift  cloud-shadows  could  no  softlier  fall, 
Than  she  who  fled  with  every  flying  gleam, 

Not  looking  back 
Where,  on  the  heedless  windings  of  her  track, 

Unmarked  by  all, 

Came  fierce  and  fast 
The  shadow  that  had  lurked  beneath  the  wall. 


But,  ere  he  reached  her  side, 
The  crowding  shapes  that  wavered  to  and  fro 
Parted  to  show 

A  band  of  figures  placed 
Alone  amid  the  wide  and  level  waste. 

Calmly  did  they  abide, 
Like  those  who  wait 

The  certain  stroke  of  fate, 
And  the  quick  coming  of  an  unknown  thing. 
These  were  the  shadows  of  those  hapless  ones 
Who  saw  that  day  their  last  of  setting  suns, 

To  whom,  at  eventide 

Flew  Death  on  low  swift  wing  j 

And  as  on  earth  they  died, 
Their  shadows  felt  the  pitiless  command, 

Drooped  'neath  the  unseen  spell, 

And  died  in  Shadowland. 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

Closely  the  swarming  phantoms  pressed, 

And  ever  nearer  drew 
Unto  those  few, 

A  shifting  silent  ring, 
As  if  the  twilight,  gathering  darkly  round, 
Quickened  to  shapes  of  tremulous  unrest. 
Silent  they  were, 

Silent  the  waiting  band, 

Only  with  waving  hand 
They  bade  farewell, 
But  in  clear  regions  of  the  upper  air, 

Unto  the  utmost  bound 
And  limit  of  the  mountain  wilderness, 
Sang  mournful  Echo,  shadow  of  a  sound, 

Alone  and  bodiless, 
Echo  of  sadness,  echo  of  despair. 

1  O  ye  who  die  this  night, 

Your  race  is  run, 
Of  changeful  dusk  and  light 

Your  thread  was  spun, 
And  now  your  doom  is  written — you  must  go. 

1  Behold,  Death  comes  to  break 

All  woven  bands. 
What  though  sad  hearts  shall  ache  ? 


A   MARRIAGE  OF  SHADOWS  13 

Loose,  loose  your  hands, 
No  loving  clasp  can  hold  you — you  must  go. 

*  There  is  no  man  can  save — 

Your  life  is  past — 
The  dim  mysterious  wave 

Is  rising  fast, 
The  unknown  Shadow  waits  you — you  must  go. 

1  Has  that  wide  sea  a  shore  ? 

No  man  can  know — 
In  darkness  evermore 

We  hear  it  flow, 
And  the  great  deep  has  called  you — you  must  go. 

'  Cry  not  with  dying  breath, 

All  pleading  fails — 
The  bitter  wind  of  death 
Has  filled  your  sails — 
Farewell — farewell — farewell !  for  you  must  go.' 

At  the  last  note  the  shapes  distinct  and  clear, 

Sable  upon  the  silver  atmosphere, 

Grew  strange,  like  phantoms  in  a  mystic  glass  ; 

And  knowing  death  was  near, 
Flung  high  their  arms,  as  who  should  moan  Alas  ! 


i4  A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

For  gladness  that  had  been, 
Had  been,  but  should  not  be — 
Then  died  into  the  tender  dusk  unseen, 
And  with  the  last  a  terror  seemed  to  pass, 
And  all  the  watching  shadows  were  set  free. 

Then  the  pursuer,  starting  from  his  place, 

Turned  swiftly  to  the  chase, 
Pressing  so  closely  on  the  shadow  maid 
That,  conscious  of  besetting  force, 
Of  strength  that  followed  and  that  could  not  tire, 
She  faltered,  half-afraid 
And,  pausing  in  her  course, 
Against  her  will,  she  turned,  and  looked  him  in 
the  face. 

Dusk  shape  of  Love,  with  neither  flesh  nor  fire, 

Intent,  impalpable  and  mute, 
A  subtle,  haunting  phantom  of  desire, 

A  shadow  of  pursuit, 

To  conquer  or  beguile 
Aping  in  spectral  form  his  master's  way  of  wile — 

He  followed  her — and  she 

O  with  how  sweet  a  grace, 
As  of  an  angel  stooping  from  above, 
She  looked  upon  him  !     Unto  what  pure  love 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

Had  her  fair  lady,  in  a  dream  may  be, 
Thrilling,  half-yielded,  tenderly  afraid  ? 

But  even  as  she  swayed, 
As  one  who  yields,  and  yet  who  fain, 
Would  flee  and  yield  in  vain — 
High,  where  the  jagg'd  horizon  cut  the  air, 
There  burst  a  wild  and  widening  glare 
Of  unknown  day  upon  those  twain. 
Rushing  from  dawn  to  night 
A  strange  white  sun 
Flashed  in  a  sudden  splendour  to  the  height, 
And  in  its  light 
The  flying  shadow  shapes  were  fused  in  one. 


1 6  A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 


III. 
ON  THE  BRIDGE. 

Day  came  again — 

The  host  of  Shadowland 
Started  in  terror  from  their  dusky  mirth, 
And  looking  backward  as  they  fled  to  earth, 

Saw  the  long  bridge  of  ashen  cloud  that  spanned 
The  glimmering  plain, 
Dissolving  swiftly  in  the  sunlit  air. 
The  brooding  vapours,  heavy  as  despair, 

Rolled  from  the  lucid  sky  ; 
The  winds  amid  the  leafy  woodlands  stirred, 

And  hastening  by 
Bore  happy  life,  and  freshness  of  the  dew, 
Odours  of  plants,  and  song  of  careless  bird, 

To  bid  men  hope  anew, 
Buds  burst  in  flower,  and  waters  everywhere 
Rippled  with  joy  of  morning,  frank  and  fair. 

The  slender  shadow  shape 
Fled  homeward,  seeking  to  escape 
The  light  of  day  ; 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS  i7 

Homeward  by  hedges  white  with  may 

She  made  her  way 

Airy  and  fleet 

Unto  her  lady's  feet, 
And  found  her  resting  still  in  slumber  sweet. 

There  patiently  she  lay 
Until  her  mistress,  gazing  with  clear  eyes, 
Looked  forth  in  glad  surprise, 

As  if  the  earth,  the  sky,  the  flowers, 
Were  strangely  fair  to  her  awakened  sight, 
Though  yet  she  mused  upon  the  midnight  hours 
Which  bore  her,  drifted  on  their  drowsy  streams, 
Through  regions  of  delight, 
Where  whitest  dreams 
Blossomed  in  all  the  dusky  fields  of  night. 

Meantime  the  bridegroom  shadow  in  his  place, 
Crouched  by  his  master's  side,  malign  and  dumb, 
Waiting  until  the  waking  hour  should  come, 
The  hour  that  strips 
The  veil  of  darkness  from  Life's  withered  face — 
Too  soon  it  came, 

He  woke  with  eyes  reluctant,  and  his  lips 
Were  bitter  with  the  dregs  of  half-reme.mbered 
shame. 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

The  summer  day  went  by.     The  great  sun  burned 

Upward  to  kingly  noon  j 
And  through  the  day  the  wheeling  shadows  turned  ; 
Till,  when  their  lord  sank  down, 

Thin  vapours  drifted  o'er  the  crescent  moon. 
River,  and  shore,  and  hill 

Lay  black  and  small  beneath  the  solemn  height, 
The  grassy  fields,  the  lonely  ways  were  still, 
Save  for  sweet  singing  of  the  night-bird  brown, 
But  through  the  darkened  mazes  of  the  town 

Ran  busy  lines  of  light. 

Bridegroom  and  bride 
From  the  far  land  of  dreams 
Banished  at  golden  daybreak,  met  once  more, 
When  daylight  died, 
Where  the  great  bridge  from  shore  to  shore 
Glittered  across  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
The  lamps  set  high 
Against  the  windy  sky, 
Cast  dim,  half-sunken  gleams 
Upon  the  dusky  rushing  of  the  tide, 

And  evermore  the  hurrying  crowds  went  by. 
The  man  among  them  passed 
Not  now  on  sombre  thought  intent, 
But  with  an  aspect  of  defiant  pride, 


A    MARRIAGE  OF  SHADOWS  19 

And  glancing  as  he  went, 
Saw  how  a  shadow  lengthened  out  to  meet 
His  shadow  where  it  swaggered  at  his  side, 
Till  twain  were  one  beneath  the  passer's  feet. 
Then  lifting  careless  eyes, 
He  felt  within  his  soul  a  strange  remembrance  rise. 

Was  she  a  shadow  who  that  shadow  cast  ? 
A  shadow  out  of  long-forgotten  days 

Falling  across  the  life  she  once  made  bright  ? 
Well  might  he  stand  and  gaze — 

Had  the  dull  years  turned  backward  in  their  flight 
To  give  him  once  again 
Rapture  keen-edged  with  pain, 
The  living  vision  of  a  dead  delight  ? 
Was  this  his  love,  the  lodestar  of  his  youth  ? 
It  could  not  be  !    His  love  lay  low, 
Never  again  her  weary  head  to  raise — 
Sad  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep, 
No  more  to  weep, 
Sad  lips  were  sealed,  and  should  no  more  complain, 
Sad  heart  was  still,  no  sorrow  more  to  know — 
And  yet  she  seemed  his  love  in  very  truth  ! 
So  young,  so  fair,  perforce  he  held  his  breath, 
As  if  new  life  had  blossomed  out  of  death, 
To  bring  him  back  that  love  of  long  ago. 

c  2 


A   MARRIAGE    OF  SHADOWS 

Within  his  soul  the  Past  arose  once  more — 
The  hour  they  parted,  and  the  song  she  sung, 
The  eyes  that  followed,  and  the  hands  that  clung. 
Once  more  he  stood  where  oft  he  stood  before  ; 
The  yellow  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 
The  tide,  far  off,  was  ebbing  on  the  shore, 

The  orchard  boughs 
Were  white  with  blossom,  for  the  year  was  young. 
Once  more  he  saw,  once  more  he  saw  and  heard, 

Once  more  he  felt  her  pressed 
Closely  against  his  side  ; 

Strong  in  his  whispered  vows, 

Scorning  all  fear  of  change 
Singing  her  song  of  sun  and  leaf  and  tide, 

Till,  at  a  farewell  word, 

Her  voice  from  its  high  range 
Dropped  in  sharp  anguish,  like  a  wounded  bird- 
Dropped  suddenly,  and  died 
In  spent  and  quivering  sobs  upon  his  breast. 

Ah,  who  should  sing  the  rest  ? 
Forgotten  many  a  year  those  notes  had  been, 

But  now  they  woke  again, 

Pale  Memory  took  up  the  broken  strain, 
And  sang  it  through,  with  all  the  sobs  between. 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS  2 

*  Go,  Love,  go — if  needs  it  must  be  so — 

Go,  as  the  Sun  goes  down  his  western  way 
At  dying  of  the  day, 
And  all  the  earth  is  wrapped 
In  shadows  chill  and  grey. 

'  Go,  Love,  go — if  needs  it  must  be  so — 
Go  from  my  longing  as  the  Summer  goes 
From  many  a  garden  close, 
And  through  the  branches  bare 
The  wind  of  autumn  blows. 

•  Go,  Love,  go — if  needs  it  must  be  so — 

Go  as  the  Tide,  that,  sobbing,  makes  its  moan 
O'er  sand  and  weedy  stone, 
And  yet  is  drawn  perforce 
Unto  the  deep  unknown. 

'  Go,  Love,  go — if  needs  it  must  be  so — 
Summer,  and  Sun,  and  Surges  of  the  main, 
Ye  cannot  heed  my  pain  ! 

Go,  Love,  go — if  needs  it  must  be  so  ; 

But  come,  Love,  come  ! — O  Love,  come  thus  again  ! 

Come  as  they  come,  Love,  going  as  they  go  ! ' 

The  momentary  dream 
Was  past,  the  wedded  shadows  torn  apart, 


2  A    MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

The  man  once  more  alone,  yet  in  his.  heart 
The  song  was  clear  and  loud, 
Above  the  Babel  of  the  crowd, 
Above  the  ceaseless  ripple  of  the  stream, 
And  as  he  hastened  on  his  way  he  stepped 
To  snatches  of  its  music,  sad  as  tears. 
The  haunting  voice  sang  ever  in  his  ears, 
'  Come  thus  again  !    O  Love,  come  thus  again  ! 
Mixing  it  with  the  notes  of  '  vain  '  and  '  pain,' 
And  that  refrain 
At  which  of  old  she  wept 
Came  back  to  him  now  all  the  tears  were  shed 
Out  of  the  regions  of  the  dead, 

An  empty  echo,  ringing  through  the  years. 

He  had  not  listened  while  she  lived  to  pray 
1  Come  thus  again — O  Love,  come  thus  again  ! ' 
But  now  that  all  the  prayer  was  meaningless, 
Now  that  he  could  not  comfort  her  one  day, 

Nor  with  his  presence  bless, 

Nor  wipe  away 
The  weary  tears  which  were  as  fallen  rain- 
He  turned  as  one  who  might  no  more  delay, 
As  if  she  bade  him  follow  to  some  place 
Without  the  city,  where  in  loneliness 

He  should  stand  face  to  face 


A  MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS  23 

With  the  dim  heaven  above, 
And  the  eternal  wrong  he  never  could  redress. 
And  she  who  seemed  the  shadow  of  his  love, 

Risen  from  the  graveyard  green, 
Passed,  yet  turned  backward  ere  she  passed, 
A  lingering  look  to  cast. 
She  too  had  seen 
The  wedlock  of  their  shadows,  she  had  raised 
Her  eyes  to  his,  had  met  a  glance  amazed — 
An  awestruck  glance,  that  saw  her  golden  head 
Beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  the  dead — 

And  in  his  startled  eyes 
Somewhat  that  startled  her  had  leapt  to  light, 

Somewhat  of  pride 
Made  an  imperious  claim  that  would  not  be  denied — 
Somewhat  of  pain  and  wrong,  unspoken,  dim, 
Looked  forth,  and  drew  her  pity  down  to  him. 
A  feeling  that  she  scarce  could  recognise 
Awoke  within  her,  snatched  a  white  disguise 
Of  prayer  and  thrilling  with  a  strange  affright, 
Followed  him  through  the  shadows  of  the  night. 


24  A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 


EPILOGUE. 

These  shadows  of  an  unknown  land  and  age 
Passing  afar  upon  their  pilgrimage, 
Fell  for  a  little  space  across  my  page. 

A  shadow  hand  lay  side  by  side  with  mine, 
And  ever  as  I  wrote  it  penned  a  line 
Whose  purport  I  but  dimly  can  divine. 

Too  faint,  too  subtle  ;  yet  if  any  read 

My  dream,  half  spoiled  in  writing,  I  would  plead 

1  The  shadow  lines,  between  my  verses,  heed  ! ' 

There  is  so  much  that  I  have  failed  to  say — 
The  dusky  figures,  gliding  on  their  way, 
Elude  me,  and  the  light  of  every  day 

Comes,  slowly  widening  o'er  the  world  again — 
I  look  for  all  my  midnight  crowd  in  vain, 
Gone  !  and  the  written  words  alone  remain. 

Out  of  the  shadows  of  an  unknown  night 
The  vision  came.     A  momentary  light 
Revealed  the  crowding  shapes  in  hurried  flight. 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS  25 

Even  as  they  fled  they  sorrowed  and  embraced, 
Across  the  narrow  gleam  I  saw  them  haste 
Into  the  shadows  where  no  path  is  traced. 

I  have  no  word  to  answer  should  you  ask 
Their  further  fortunes — not  for  me  the  task 
To  follow  them  and  bid  the  End  unmask. 

When  I  can  understand  the  scope  and  worth 
Of  but  one  deed  of  all  deeds  done  on  earth — 
When  I  can  trace  it  backward  to  its  birth, 

And  onward,  through  whatever  may  befall, 
Unto  its  end,  then  will  I  hear  your  call, 
Question  me  then,  and  I  will  answer  all. 

Not  now,  for  now  with  doubting  steps  I  go 
And  in  the  peopled  twilight  dimly  know 
Strange  marriage-bonds   between   things   high  and 
low. 

Faint  whispers  in  the  woodlands  and  the  streams, 
Half-lights,  uncertain  shadows,  wandering  gleams, 
A  clouded  sky,  a  wilderness  of  dreams. 

Longing  for  light  a  little  way  I  creep, 

And  guard  the  thought  that,  when  I  fall  asleep, 

Others  shall  climb  the  never-conquered  steep, 


26  A    MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

And  see  our  pathways,  trodden  long  before, 
Lie  far  below  them  as  a  level  floor  ; 
While  vast  horizons  widen  evermore, 

— Yet  evermore  are  girdled  with  a  zone 

Of  dusky  cloud,  the  land  of  things  unknown, 

Of  days  to  come  and  days  forespent  and  flown — 

And  man  still  climbing  shall  look  up  to  meet 
The  light  that  draws  him  while  his  pulses  beat, 
Smiting  all  shadows  downward  to  his  feet. 

But  while  the  vision  rises  nobly  fair, 

A  voice  in  every  ripple  of  the  air 

Whispers  of  things  that  are  not,  though  they  were. 

A  voice  of  changing  seasons,  changing  times, 
From  often  trodden  ways,  and  far-off  climes, 
With  dying  echoes  woven  into  rhymes. 

'  Idly  you  wander — whither  leads  your  way  ? 
You  watch  the  shadows — are  you  not  as  they  ? 
They  pass  and  are  forgotten — shall  you  stay  ? 

1  Have  you  not  listened  to  the  summer  breeze, 
And  listening,  dreamed,  beneath  the  leafy  trees, 
Of  sunsets,  dying  over  unknown  seas, 


A   MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS  27 

Of  dawn,  far  off  and  fair  on  sovereign  heights, 
Or  keenest  splendour  of  unresting  lights 
In  the  great  loneliness  of  northern  nights— 

'  Of  white  waves  breaking  on  a  desert  beach, 
Unseen,  unknown,  unuttered  in  your  speech, 
Unseen,  unknown,  as  far  beyond  your  reach 

'  As  fallen  snow  when  come  the  summer  rains, 
As  bygone  sweetness  of  a  wild  bird's  strains, 
As  jests  and  fancies,  lost  in  dead  men's  brains  ? 

'  The  lavish  beauty  dawns  while  no  man  heeds, 
And,  like  the  wind's  quick  whisper  in  the  reeds, 
It  dies  away,  not  measured  by  your  needs, 

'  Beyond  you,  lost  for  ever  !     Will  you  say 
That  the  great  world  rolls  backward  on  its  way 
To  bring  again  the  grace  of  yesterday — 

'  Backward,  to  battle  for  the  shattered  spoil 
That  Death  has  hidden  'neath  the  trampled  soil, 
Backward,  to  seek  with  melancholy  toil, 

The  flower  that  bloomed  and  dropped,  the  flame 

that  died, 
The  song's  last  echo  ?    No,  in  fruitful  pride 
It  hastens  onward,  casting  all  aside. 


28  A    MARRIAGE   OF  SHADOWS 

1  Fresh  buds  unclose  where  withered  blossoms  grew, 
Fresh  melodies  ring  out  when  skies  are  blue, 
Nature  is  glad,  and  all  the  world  is  new. 

1  Since  first  the  years  in  changing  seasons  ran 
All  grace  and  beauty  live  their  little  span, 
Why  not  the  beauty  and  the  joy  of  man  ? 

'  Nature  has  never  reached  a  hand  to  save, 
Has  never  paused  beside  an  open  grave 
To  give  again  the  life  that  once  she  gave. 

'  Shadows  and  men  she  sees  them  every  one 
Passing  away,  as  pass  when  day  is  done 
Black  flights  of  birds  across  the  western  sun.' 

So  speaks  the  voice  and  pauses  in  its  flow, 
I  answer,  What  am  I  that  I  should  know  ? 
Must  all  our  life  be  quenched?     It  may  be  so. 

It  may  be  so.     Yet  can  it  change  my  cry  ? 
Let  the  last  man  be  nobler  far  than  I 
Though  I  am  dead,  though  he  shall  surely  die. 

It  may  be  so.     Yet  who  can  tell  the  height, 
The  joy,  the  white  perfection  of  the  light 
He  may  attain  before  the  coming  night  ? 


A   MARRIAGE  OF  SHADOWS  29 

Who  knows  what  clearer  vision  there  may  be 

In  the  great  days  that  I  shall  never  see  ? 

— Shall  not  this  hope  be  hope  enough  for  me  ? 

Why  must  a  mortal  love  be  meaner,  less, 

Nor  rather  rise  on  high,  through  narrowing  stress, 

To  passion  of  all-giving  tenderness  ? 

With  other  hearts  our  hearts  must  beat  and  ache, 
Life  were  not  much  to  give  for  their  dear  sake, 
Life  were  not  much  to  give,  nor  death  to  take. 

Nay  we  may  dream  each  planet  has  its  dower, 
Of  hidden  hope,  and  at  the  destined  hour 
Opens  in  sweet  and  solitary  flower — 

Burns  in  a  glory  of  consuming  fire, 
Sudden  and  strong  as  passionate  desire, 
Then  dies  in  ashes  like  a  funeral  pyre — 

Breaks  forth  in  song  that  soars  with  winged  strain 
To  silver  heights,  transforming  all  its  pain 
To  music— then  the  silence  comes  again. 

If  like  a  shadow,  or  a  passing  sigh, 

Love,  thus  made  perfect  from  the  world  must  die, 

Scorn  it  who  will,  I  will  not  scorn  it — I  ! 

1878. 


3o  A   SHADOW  ON  THE   DIAL 


A   SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL. 

I  am  yet  young.     Yet  am  not  I  so  young 
But  that  along  life's  tense  and  fraying  thread 
Run  sudden  tremors — thoughts  of  age  to  come, 
And  of  the  final  snapping,  which  is  Death. 
Each  thrill  a  stab,  and  then  a  lingering  ache  ; 
A  note  which  startles — echoes,  faints,  and  dies. 
As  if  the  quivering  string  made  sad  response 
Unto  a  far-off  hand  j  upraised  to  warn 
And  smite,  like  that  whereof  the  legend  tells, 
Which  wrote  in  awful  mercy  on  the  wall. 

Then  do  I  dream  of  something  which  pursues, 
With  lengthened  strides  as  years  run  shortened  by. 
A  step  'mid  blue-bells  when  they  come  again, 
A  step  beneath  June's  canopy  of  green, 
A  sigh  which  wanders  with  the  wandering  wind, 
A  rustle  mixed  with  autumn's  rustling  leaves, 
A  chill  which  falls  with  winter's  falling  snow. 


A   SHADOW  ON   THE  DIAL  31 

Only  a  sigh,  a  shadow  and  a  chill. 

Not  altogether  pain — a  bitterness 

Which  adds  a  last  intensity  to  joy. 

He  know's  Love's  agony  of  rapture  best, 

Who  hears,  amid  his  lady's  loving  talk, 

An  echo  from  the  regions  of  the  grave  ; 

Who  crops  the  blossoms  of  his  life  in  haste 

And  flings  them  down  before  her,  lest  they  fail 

To  share  the  death  he  sees  upon  her  face. 

Her  face,  his  flower,  or  no  !  his  star — Ah  God  ! 

Too  like  a  star,  which,  doomed  in  highest  heaven, 

Flames  in  unwonted  splendour  ere  it  dies  ! 

And  evermore,  as  hurrying  years  go  round, 

Is  not  June  sweeter  that  December  comes  ? 

And  blossoms  that  they  fade  ?     Yes,  better  so. 

For  who  would  cherish  an  unfading  flower, 

With  which  a  thousand  other  hands  had  toyed, 

Whose  petals  scores  of  unknown  lips  had  brushed  ? 

Now,  lost,  it  dies,  or  lingers  faintly  pure, 

Crowned  with  the  hazy  halo  of  a  dream  ; 

But  if  it  lived  from  June  to  June,  the  vile 

Might  wear  your  rose,  or  it  might  be  the  gift 

Another  lover  gave  another  love. 

Let  the  undying  flowers  we  should  profane 

Bloom  sacredly  in  sacred  Paradise, 

And  leave  the  poorer  garlands  gathered  here, 

The  sad,  supreme,  pathetic  charm  of  death. 


32  A   SHADOW  ON   THE  DIAL 

For  Death  is  great,  inscrutable,  alone 

Common  to  all,  but  never  commonplace. 

It  overhangs  our  dull  and  hackneyed  lives, 

As  the  grey  silence  of  an  endless  cliff, 

Sheer  to  the  flood,  and  towering  to  the  sky, 

Defies  and  dominates  a  waste  of  waves. 

Death  is  a  king,  whose  face  we  should  behold 

With  awe,  but  not  with  loathing — Death  is  great. 

Ah  !  but  Old  Age,  his  herald  !     See  the  bent 

Decrepit  messenger,  who  totters  first 

To  lead  us  to  his  presence — clasps  our  hands 

With  shaking  fingers,  checks  our  fearless  step, 

Constraining  it  to  his, — and  leans  on  us, 

Till,  bowed  and  sickened  with  his  hateful  weight, 

We  crawl,  half  willingly,  to  meet  our  doom. 

Idly  I  muse,  and  fashion  pictures  thus, 
Yet  age,  meanwhile,  to  me  is  nothing,  save 
A  chill,  a  shapeless  shadow,  and  a  sigh. 
But  in  the  coming  days  how  shall  it  be  ? 
Then  will  the  shadow  take  an  awful  shape  ? 
Then  will  the  chill  freeze  all  the  springs  of  hope  ? 
Then  will  the  sigh  become  a  weary  moan 
Breathed  from  within,  not  wandering  without  ? 
If  so,  fain  would  I  look  it  in  the  face. 
Who  would  not  rather  meet  a  spectral  form 


A   SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL  33 

Fresh  from  the  laughing  circle  of  his  friends, 
Than  in  a  vigil,  where  the  meanest  things 
Loom  through  the  shadows,  strange  and  terrible  ? 

Come  then,  Old  Age,  and  let  me  see  your  face. 

Utter  your  spell,  whereat  the  blood  runs  cold, 

Bind  mine,  for  sport,  in  brief  and  bitter  frost, 

— I  smile,  since  it  must  flow  unchecked  again, — 

Show  me  your  pall,  which,  flung  across  the  world, 

Will  settle  slowly  down  in  sable  folds, 

— My  God  will  rend  the  gloomy  veil  for  me. — 

Are  you  so  busy,  darkening  men's  lives 

In  awful  earnest,  that  there  is  no  time 

For  jesting?    Needs  must  T  resign  the  hope, 

And  yet  it  haunts  me.     Would  it  might  have  been  ! 

What  harm  if  I  had  stood  a  vision's  space, 

And  gathered  thoughts,  then  with  a  mute  farewell, 

Gone  on  my  journey  towards  our  common  goal  ? 

It  may  not  be.     And  I  am  left  alone, 

To  grasp,  and  bring  to  light  my  lurking  fear. 

Dim  eyes,  dull  ears,  slow  pulses,  failing  knees, 
Hard,  hard  to  bear,  but  these  are  not  old  age. 
For  say  it  pleased  my  God  to  strike  me  blind, 
Make  me  a  cripple,  whose  enfeebled  life 
Ebbs  by  the  fireside, — am  I  therefore  old  ? 

D 


34  SHADOW  ON   THE  DIAL 

No  1  for  my  sightless  eyes  will  surely  serve 

For  bursts  of  youthful  weeping — '  Blind  !  and  all 

Is  loveliness  around  me  !     Paradise 

Is  the  wide  world,  which  I  shall  never  see  ! 

Godlike  the  strife  which  I  shall  never  share  ! ' 

Not  mine  the  hopeless  burden  of  old  age, 

'  Ah  !  once  there  was  a  world  all  golden-green, 

Which  since  has  withered  to  a  dreary  grey. 

Great  lives  were  lived,  and  strenuous  battles  fought 

Yes,  those  were  men  !     Now  a  degenerate  mob 

Hustle  each  other  on  a  downward  road  !  ■ 

Thus  may  my  grandsire  muse,  across  the  rug, 

Stare  at  the  kettle,  watch  the  cinders  fall, 

He  in  his  easy  chair,  while  I  in  mine 

Feel  sharper  anguish, — joy  compared  to  his. 

I  know  I  cannot  win  the  Koh-i-noor, 

He  thinks  his  eyes  are  opened,  and  'tis  glass, 

I  am  the  richer,  by  the  Koh-i-noor  ! 

Youth — age — how  does  my  fancy  shape  itself  ! 
I  seem  to  see  an  airy,  vacant  room, 
With  open  casements,  where  the  azure  shines 
Through  leaflessness  of  interlacing  boughs  ; 
Not  bare,  as  when  November's  latest  leaf 
Has  shivered  sadly  downward  to  the  mire, 
But  leaflessness  of  March,   a  ruddy  haze 
Flushing  the  twigs  with  promise  of  the  spring. 


A    SHADOW  ON   THE  DIAL  35 

Shadows  of  branches  waver  on  the  floor, 

And  'mid  the  wavering  shadows  plays  a  child, 

And,  like  the  shadows,  flickers  to  and  fro. 

Now,  at  the  wide  bright  windows,  golden  hair 

Glistens  in  golden  sunlight,  and  blue  eyes 

Search  the  blue  vault,  while  the  spring-scented  breeze 

Breaks  in  soft  billows  on  his  lifted  face. 

And  now  with  small  feet  pattering  on  the  boards, 

He  wakes  the  silent  room  to  share  his  mirth. 

Then  sitting  on  the  floor,  in  childish  thought, 

He  tosses  here  and  there  a  heap  of  flowers, 

And,  because  all  his  life  is  only  spring, 

The  crocus-cups,  that  overflow  with  spring, 

To  him  are  nought  but  playthings.     He  is  young, 

And  so  it  is  he  knows  not  he  is  young, 

Nor  any  other  old.     Wanton  he  tears 

The  blossoms  into  little  saffron  shreds, 

And  flings  them  down.     Who  will,  may  piece  the 

leaves, 
And  read  their  message  innocently  sweet. 

Just  a  tiny  blue-eyed  maid, 
Newly  out  of  Eden  strayed  ; 
Lips,  a  bud  rose-tinted,  rare, 
And  the  sunlight  in  her  hair — 
Here  is  Spring  ! 


36  A   SHADOW  ON   THE  DIAL 

Leaves  are  few  to  make  her  bowers 
Bunches  bright  of  leafless  flowers 
Are  by  baby  fingers  placed 
Side  by  side,  in  happy  haste — 
Little  Spring  ! 

Gardens  dark  with  winter  gloom, 
All  at  once  begin  to  bloom  ; 
Budding  branches,  lifted  high, 
Laugh  and  whisper  in  the  sky, 

'  Welcome,  Spring  ! ' 

She  will  reach  their  stately  height— 
What  to  her  are  blossoms  bright  ? 
Little  Spring,  in  haste  to  pass, 
Lets  them  fall  among  the  grass- 
Eager  Spring  ! 

Tip-toe  stands,  with  parted  lips, 
Cannot  reach  their  swaying  tips, 
Brushes  past  in  April  grief- 
See  !     The  underwood  in  leaf  ! 
Fairy  Spring  ! 

She  is  growing  tall  and  slim, 
And  her  eyes  are  darkly  dim, 


A    SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL  37 

Deepening  with  the  deepening  sky, 
Darkening  with  the  blue-bell's  dye, 
— Is  it  Spring  ? — 

They  were  wide  and  undismayed, 
Timid  now,  and  veiled  in  shade — 
Comes  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet, 
She  is  flushed  with  roses  sweet — 
Happy  Spring  ! 

Ah  !  last  moment  here  she  stood. 
Gone  for  ever  !     Through  the  wood 
Came  young  Summer,  and  in  bliss 
Died  she  'neath  his  burning  kiss — 
Farewell,  Spring  ! 

Throw  wide  the  windows  to  a  golden  flood 

Of  sunlight,  song,  and  perfume, — June  is  here  ! 

Now  reigns  the  rose  in  pride  of  flower  and  leaf, 

And  drops  the  curtain  of  her  tangled  sprays, 

Laden  with  blossom,  o'er  the  grave  of  spring. 

Now  come  strange  thrills  of  impulse  unto  one 

Who  feels  the  early  summer  in  his  veins, 

And  finds  all  sweetness  'neath  the  arching  blue, 

Sweeter,  because  of  one  most  sweet  of  all. 

The  earth  is  full  of  joy  and  melody, 

Yet  he  looks  upward,  for  the  clouds  unfold 


A    SHADOW  ON   THE  DIAL 

The  loveliness  of  visionary  lands, 
Bright  in  the  airy  silence  of  the  sky. 
He  dreams  of  heights  ascended — glorious  toil, 
And  glorious  recompense, — when  kneeling  crowds 
Shall  prove  his  worthiness  to  kneel  to  her, 
And  conquest  show  his  right  to  serve  mankind. 
And  other  dreams  he  has  that  know  no  shape, 
Since  June  has  joys  too  delicate  and  vague 
For  human  speech,  joys  that  are  subtly  linked 
To  thoughts  of  her,  beyond  all  utterance. 
The  summer  world  is  fair,  and  she  is  fair, 
She  is  his  world,  and  all  its  beauty  hers. 

My  Summer  is  a  fair,  triumphant  queen, 
Who  on  her  joyous  way,  through  glade  and  glen, 
With  song  and  dainty  masque,  in  woodlands  green, 
Makes  glad  the  hearts  of  men, 

So  that  they  love  the  sunlight  and  the  rose, 
Smile,  and  forget  their  bitter  wrongs  and  pains, 
Gaze  at  her  pageant,  and  the  life-blood  flows 
Kejoicing,  through  their  veins. 

When  she  is  gone,  all  gladness  will  depart, 
Slow  dying — can  I  be  content  with  this  ? 
Not  while  my  heart  can  seek  the  throbbing  heart 
That  floods  the  world  with  bliss  ! 


A   SHADOW  ON   THE  DIAL  39 

So  from  her  fleeting  loveliness  I  fly, 
Choosing  the  endless  summer  for  my  goal, 
And  hasten — all  my  soul  a  longing  cry — 
To  seek  the  summer's  soul  ! 

Look  now  upon  a  wilderness  of  wealth, 

Of  barren  glitter,  and  bright  mockery  ; 

Where  blazonry  is  more  than  sky  and  stars, 

And  woven  splendours  from  an  eastern  loom, 

With  perfumed  folds  shut  out  the  breath  of  heaven. 

Yet  though  the  master  of  this  shining  hoard 

Be  ever  watchful — stretching  greedy  hands 

Unto  far  islands,  and  remotest  shores, 

And  though  he  pile  up  treasure  year  by  year, 

— Computing  time  by  growth  of  glittering  heaps — 

Among  his  jewels  you  shall  never  find 

Spring's  crocus  gold,  nor  diamond  dew  of  June. 

The  shadows  gather  fast,  the  night  comes  on, 

And  what  is  there  can  give  him  back  his  youth  ? 

Ah  my  God  !     I  lingered,  stooping,  in  a  dim  and 

leafy  place, 
And  my  groping  hand  uncovered  Autumn's   wan 

discoloured  face  ! 
Then  a  sudden,  sullen  shiver  ran  and  died  among 

the  trees, 


4Q  A    SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL 

And  I  see  that  face  in  all  things,  and  I  fly  with 

trembling  knees. 
Fly — but  whither  ?  Days  are  shortened,  and  the  leaves 

are  falling  fast — 
I  have  not  found  the  summer's  soul,  and  all  my  hope 

is  past  ! 

One  last  look.     All  the  air  is  close  and  faint, 
And  in  the  dimness  of  his  curtained  bed 
He  lies,  worn  out,  and  weary  of  his  life  ; 
While  round  him  come  and  go  the  busy  throngs 
That  his  dim  eyes  would  follow  if  they  could. 

He  has  grown  grey.     Perhaps.     He  scarcely  knows. 

He  almost  fancies  that  the  world  is  grey. 

The  joy  of  life  is  gone — 'tis  hardly  pain, 

But  is  there  not  a  dull,  unceasing  ache 

Throughout  the  universe  ?     There  was  a  time, 

Happy,  but  long  departed,  when  he  deemed 

That  life,  and  joy,  and  energy,  were  one 

And  his  for  evermore.     But  now,  is  not 

All  nature  growing  feeble,  and  all  life 

Low  in  the  socket  ?    Well,  the  joyous  past 

Is  past,  and  comes  no  more.     Nought  but  to  wait 

Till  this  be  also  past.     How  long  ?     How  long  ? 

No  longer.     Suddenly  the  thread  is  snapped. 


A    SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL  41 

God  looks  upon  him  with  His  face  of  Death, 
And  lifts  him  up  to  learn  that  God  is  Life. 

0  the  great  breath  he  draws  !     The  startled  gaze  ! 
God's  sky  is  sapphire,  then  !     God's  earth  is  green  ! 
Gone  are  the  sullen  clouds — Decay  and  Age, 

Dim  spectral  tyrants,  fled  into  the  past. 
Henceforth  no  death — life  only — death  is  nought. 
No  darkness,  but  a  shoreless  sea  of  light — 
Nor  youth,  nor  age,  but  God  is  all  in  all. 

Thus  in  my  fancy  runs  the  course  of  life, 

And  murmurs,  as  it  flows  through  sun  and  shade, 

1  Never  look  back  to  yearn  for  what  is  past.' 
Youth  is  not  in  the  days  when  we  were  young, 
Nor  in  the  places  which  we  loved  when  young  j 
Given  to  our  longing,  we  should  find  them  old, 
Empty,  and  meaningless.     O  foolish  hearts  ! 
Never  so  young  as  when  our  straining  eyes 
Look  for  a  future  which  shall  crown  us  kings  ; 
Never  so  old  as  when  we  dream  of  youth, 
And  long  for  it— a  thing  apart  and  gone. 

So  a  man  lingers  on  a  mountain  range, 

And,  loath  to  go,  looks  downward  from  his  height 

Upon  a  sunset  lake  of  lucid  fire, 


A    SHADOW  ON   THE  DIAL 

Which  lies  amid  its  banks  of  ruddy  cloud. 

He  stands  and  gazes,  till  his  heart  is  stirred, 

Drawn  to  the  glory,  yearning  to  possess 

Light,  and  the  glowing  hues,  and  splendid  calm. 

Yet  with  a  sudden  sigh  he  turns  away, 

Fronts  the  cold  blankness  of  the  far-off  East, 

And  passes  slowly  downward,  to  the  sad 

And  shrouded  wilderness  of  vales  below. 

Gone  is  the  widespread  beauty  of  the  world, 

For  step  by  step  the  summits  shut  him  in  ; 

Crags  overhang  his  ever-narrowing  path, 

And  beneath  every  crag  and  every  tree 

Lurks  Night,  to  spring  upon  the  shrinking  Dusk. 

Weary  and  chilled  is  he— the  pathway  rough, 

He  stumbles  onward,  but  his  thoughts  go  back 

To  the  bright  glory  of  the  western  sky, 

The  tranquil  height,  the  warm  and  golden  air, 

The  blue  above,  the  sunny  turf  below — 

His  thoughts  go  back,  but  still  he  stumbles  on. 

Darkness,  and  cloud,  and  bitter  driving  rain — 
What  matter  ?     For  his  face  is  toward  the  east, 
And  his  shall  be  the  dawning  of  the  day. 
The  greyness  of  old  age  is  but  a  mist 
From  the  dark  valley  where  our  graves  are  dug ; 
A  chilly  vapour,  which  obscures  the  world 


A   SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL  43 

And  hides  from  us  the  sun's  bright  certainty, 
Till  all  is  dim,  and,  could  we  so  resist 
God's  onward  impulse,  we  should  struggle  back 
To  search  the  western  heaven  for  the  dawn  ! 
Nay,  urge  us  forward,  Lord,  and  bid  us  win 
Thy  orient  flower  of  white  and  perfect  day  ! 

But  if  I  thus  believe,  why  fear  old  age  ? 

Why  not  pass  boldly  through  the  mocking  mist, 

In  full  assurance  of  eternal  youth, 

And  of  the  final  triumph  of  the  sun? 

Ah  !  but  my  faith  is  like  the  sun  itself — 

No  little  talisman  to  have  and  hold, 

And  grasp  more  tightly  when  the  shadows  come  ; 

But  a  mysterious  majesty  of  light, 

Across  whose  glory  billows  of  black  cloud 

Drive,  and  the  sudden  darkness  is  astir 

With  wavering  of  fantastic  shapes  of  doubt. 

Unto  the  very  verge  of  death  we  go 

With  those  who  die.     We  meet  their  failing  eyes, 

And  we  are  sad — not  seeing  how  that  look 

Of  unbelief  shall  rise  to  breathless  awe, 

And,  as  the  golden  light  succeeds  the  grey, 

Shall  brighten  to  an  ecstasy  of  peace — 

And  so  there  is  a  shadow  on  the  end. 

Here,  plain  enough,  the  sombre  threads  of  life, 


A    SHADOW   ON   THE  DIAL 

Twisted  and  tangled  in  a  sullen  maze  \ 

And  overhead — 0  surely  overhead 

Shine  through   earth's   clouds  of  dust   the   golden 

strings 
Of  lives,  which,  set  in  heaven  as  in  a  harp, 
Pour  forth  their  flood  of  melody  on  high. 
Surely  we  hear — Nay,  who  will  make  us  sure  ? 
From  the  dim  distance  to  this  warring  world, 
The  music  comes  so  faint  and  fitfully, 
— Clamour  and  moans  on  this  side  and  on  that — 
We  lean  and  listen ,  drawing  down  our  brows, 
And  sometimes  lose,  and  sometimes  half  believe. 
O  if  some  sudden  trumpet  note  might  peal, 
So  that  the  world  a  moment  held  its  breath 
Amazed,  and  then,  uplifting  a  great  voice, 
— The  utterance  of  its  countless  multitudes — 
Joined  in  the  strain,  and  made  the  gathering  notes 
As  thunder — then  an  overflowing  stream — 
A  great  flood  irresistible — and  last, 
A  steady,  upward  rush  of  wings  to  God  ! 

Too  fair  a  dream  for  hope  !  We  must  go  on, 
Must  journey  through  the  miry  ways  of  earth, 
And  labour  in  its  shadows,  to  the  end. 
Ever  the  changeless  change  of  day  and  night 
Continues,  noon  and  twilight,  gloom  and  glow 


A   SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL  45 

There  comes  no  blaze  of  dazzling  certainty 
To  flood  the  world,  and  drown  each  dim  recess 
In  waves  of  living  light.     Too  fair  the  dream  ! 
Too  blinding  bright,  too  terrible  the  boon  ! 

God  give  me  strength  to  journey  steadfastly 
Unto  the  East,  nor  miss  the  wayside  gift 
Of  leaf  and  song.     O  that  my  heart  may  beat 
For  coming  life,  and  for  the  hurried  clash 
Of  the  world's  march,  yet  never  lose  the  tunes, 
Tender  and  sweet,  to  which  old  days  were  set  ! 
Still,  as  years  fleet,  may  every  crocus  cup 
O'erflow  for  me  with  the  new  wine  of  spring; 
Still  let  me  love  the  morning's  dewy  calm, 
The  wind  that  whispers  of  the  far-off  waves, 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  daisies  in  the  grass, 
The  music  all  the  little  brooks  pour  forth 
To  while  away  their  weary  course,  until 
They  meet  the  boundless  welcome  of  the  sea; 
Still  may  my  soul  be  glad  among  the  flowers, 
Thrill  to  the  sun's  warm  kisses  on  the  dew, 
And  rise,  renewed,  in  freshness  after  rain. 

Yet  not  such  joy  alone — the  pain  too,  Lord, 
The  special  suffering  of  this  special  age, 
Give  me  my  portion  of  its  bitter  cup. 


46  A   SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL 

I  shrink  from  it,  yet,  being  what  I  am, 

I  were  not  greater  than  my  fellow  men, 

But  meaner,  less,  if  while  they  bowed  their  backs 

'Neath  weary  loads,  or  hewed  an  upward  path, 

I,  steeped  in  idle  happiness,  should  gaze 

With  half-closed  eyes,  that  scarcely  care  to  see. 

I  would  not  take  the  flowers,  and  leave  to  them 

The  nobler  share,  the  sweat-drops  of  their  toil. 

Give  me  youth's  highest  right — nay,  very  youth 

Itself,  the  knowledge  that  my  every  pulse 

Beats  with  the  inmost  pulses  of  the  age  ; 

And  that  not  only  in  its  hours  of  hope; 

Not  only  in  its  victories  and  joys — 

Give  labouring  sobs,  to  match  the  labouring  sob 

Wrung  from  a  toiling  world — defiant  cry 

Of  battle,  in  the  lurid  times  of  war — 

Yearnings  for  guidance  in  the  days  of  doubt; 

For  through  such  sympathy,  in  suffering, 

In  hope,  in  triumph,  quickened  into  life, 

I  gain  a  glimpse  of  something  more  than  joy, 

Higher  than  rapture,  distant  as  a  star — 

A  time  beyond  all  time — a  steadfast  gaze — 

An  ever-widening  thought — when  my  weak  heart, 

Lifted  above  self-consciousness,  shall  beat 

In  unison  with  His,  unchangeable, 

Who,  through  the  rolling  ages,  says  I    AM. 


A   SHADOW  ON   THE  DIAL  47 

0  star  of  hope  !  The  beating  wings  of  time 
Droop,  wearied,  fail  my  longing,  and  thou  art 
Perfect  as  ever,  and  as  ever,  far. 

Yet,  wert  thou  quenched,  the  heavens  were  black 
indeed  ! 

1  end  as  I  began.     Through  gliding  days 
I  watch  the  spinning  of  the  thread  of  life, 
Which  lengthens,  lengthens  even  as  I  write, 
And  thrills  with  meaning  to  its  utmost  length. 
My  path  before  me  glimmers  through  the  grey, 
I  rise,  and  follow  it.     Though  shadows  come, 
And  drifting  vapours  darken  into  night — 
Though  fear  arise,  and  front  me  as  despair — 
Here  stands  the  record  of  my  happier  faith. 

It  stands,  but  I  go  forward,  will  be  brave 
To  bear,  to  toil — Ah  God  !  the  icy  doubt ! 
How  will  it  be  when  life  is  burning  dim, 
In  evil  days  when  hope  and  joy  are  dead  ? 
Lord,  if  Thy  signals  grow  but  faint  and  few, 
Give  me  assurance  that  they  are  from  Thee, 
The  Life  of  Life,  flowing  in  perfect  strength, 
Not  weakened — all  the  imperfection  mine. 
Then  send  Thy  final  message — a  white  flash 
To  snap  the  thread,  and  light  me  to  Thy  feet  ! 

1873. 


43 


THE  LEVEL  LAND} 

Stirred  by  great  aims,  our  eager  souls  leap  high 
As  flame,  or  living  tree,  or  slender  tower; 
But  withered  longings  round  such  life  must  lie, 
Fallen  like  flowers  of  spring  foredoomed  to  die, 
After  a  little  space  of  sun  and  shower. 
Our  trodden  world  is  touched  with  poets'  fire; 
Star-like,  unknown,  there  hangs  a  world  above; 
And  we  have  life,  can  labour  and  aspire, 
And  seek  for  God;  yet  sometimes  I  desire— 
Ahl  how  desire  a  level  land  I  love! 

A  land  of  sunny  turf  and  laughing  rills, 
A  land  of  endless  summer,  sweet  with  dew, 
Girt  with  a  range  of  everlasting  hills, 
Asleep  beneath  a  sky  of  white  and  blue. 
There,  with  a  silver  flash,  'mid  grove  and  lawn, 
Like  curving  blades  are  thrust  the  narrow  creeks, 
And  ocean  breezes  rush  at  dusk  and  dawn 
With  songs  of  freedom  round  the  guardian  peaks. 

1  First  published  in  Harper  s  Magazine  for  November  1880. 


THE  LEVEL  LAND  49 

In  sparkling  air  the  poplars  quiver  high; 
In  every  thicket  sing  the  birds  unseen; 
O'er  sculptured  walls,  beneath  the  glowing  sky, 
Fruits  cluster,  purple-ripe;  and  waters  lie 
Lucid  in  fountains  rimmed  with  mossy  green. 

A  clearer  music  whispers  in  the  reeds 
Than  reeds  have  ever  learned  by  brooks  of  ours, 
And  throughout  all  the  year  the  level  meads 
Are  golden-green,  and  sprinkled  full  of  flowers. 
As  some  dear  child  once  more  at  home  might  stand, 
Her  very  self,  but  taller  and  more  fair — 
Herself,  yet  changed  in  eyes  and  brow  and  hair- 
So  like,  unlike,  the  flowers  in  that  far  land, 
And  violets  grow  very  thickly  there. 

And  there  is  many  a  wide  and  busy  way 

Which  echoes  with  the  singing  of  sweet  words 

And  greetings  ;  for  the  wayfarers  are  gay, 

Light,  and  unwearied  as  the  darting  birds. 

Their  eyes  are  glad  for  beauty  that  has  been, 

Glad  for  new  beauty,  where  they  feast  afresh. 

And  every  face  is  delicate  and  keen, 

Clothed  but  not  burdened  with  its  garb  of  flesh. 

Nor  is  among  them  stammering  thought  nor  tongue, 

But  eyes  and  lips  and  hands  have  perfect  speech. 


50  THE   LEVEL  LAND 

Outlines,  or  mingled  hues,  words  said  or  sung, 
Sweet  wordless  looks,  and  music  finely  strung 
Belong  to  all,  and  answer  each  to  each. 

Maidens  are  there  might  bid  a  gazer  deem 
That  the  soft  shadows  of  the  eventide — 
The  balmy  dusk  when  day  has  newly  died — 
Flowed  in  their  veins,  a  swift  and  subtle  stream, 
So  darkly  sweet  among  the  flowers  they  glide. 
Their  garments,  as  they  flit  between  the  trees, 
Blend  their  rich  dyes  in  one  imperial  glow, 
Like  a  fair  garden  of  anemones 
When  blossoms  open  and  the  south  winds  blow. 
And  others  look  upon  that  land's  delight, 
Grey-eyed  and  stately — women  queenly  souled— 
Golden  their  hair,  and  in  their  raiment  white 
Have  cunning  fingers  woven  flowers  of  gold. 

They  have  no  laughter  there  of  lofty  scorn, 
Nor  of  a  gladness  from  the  world  apart. 
No  sidelong  merriment,  no  satire  born 
Of  hidden  pain  and  weariness  of  heart. 
Joy  of  the  world  with  joy  of  man  unites — 
Gladness  of  brooks  that  glitter  in  the  sun, 
Greetings  of  lovers,  leafy  shades  and  lights 
Dancing  in  golden  riot,  all  are  one. 


THE  LEVEL  LAND  51 

Sweet  with  the  kiss  of  ripples  on  the  sand, 
With  mirth  of  flower  and  bird,  of  maid  and  boy, 
Goes  up  the  laughter  of  the  level  land, 
Its  clearest  note  the  note  of  human  joy. 

Like  a  midsummer  madrigal  which  tells 
Of  golden  love  in  notes  like  golden  bells 
Is  that  fair  land  for  which  I  vainly  long; 
And  even  were  I  throned  where  gladness  dwells, 
Mine  were  a  note  of  discord  in  the  song. 
For  dim  perplexities,  and  hopes  that  wane, 
Doubt,  and  the  ghastly  riddles  Sin  and  Pain, 
Burden  of  Duty,  and  contending  creeds, 
Would  still  pursue,  oppress  my  weary  brain, 
And  mar  the  music  of  the  river  reeds. 

O  heavy  Thought!     Can  Sleep  no  comfort  yield, 
Who  conquers  every  pain  with  transient  health — 
Lost  ere  the  sick  heart  knew  that  it  was  healed — 
Fair  Sleep,  who  mocks  and  blesses  us  by  stealth, 
Bids  us  be  kings  and  rule  the  empty  air, 
Fly  on  swift  pinions,  or  renew  our  youth — 
Can  Sleep  no  comfort  yield  in  my  despair  ? 
O  for  a  sleep  whose  visions,  faint  and  fair, 
Should  gather  strength,  should  win  a  virtue  rare, 
Open  like  buds,  and  blossom  into  Truth ! 

E  2 


52  THE  LEVEL  LAND 

Is  there  such  perfect  slumber  'neath  the  sky  ? 
Nay,  is  there  not  ?     It  might  be  found,  I  think, 
Could  I  attain  that  land.     Could  I  but  lie 
Upon  the  level  turf,  and  softly  sigh, 
'Mid  the  soft  sighing  of  the  water's  brink, 
Till  I  forgot  the  strife  of  Right  and  Wrong, 
Forgot  the  gloom  of  overhanging  Death, 
And  slept  off  all  my  care  'mid  rippling  song, 
Might  I  not  rise,  and  drawing  fuller  breath, 
Wake  to  no  torpid  creeping  of  the  blood, 
But  a  quick  rush  of  life — no  languid  flow 
Of  joy  wrung  out  amid  encircling  woe, 
But  gladness  pouring  in  a  golden  flood  ? 
Dream  of  a  fool!     The  soul  makes  answer,  No! 

Not  mine,  nor  shall  be  mine  from  first  to  last, 
That  level  land.     There  rises  from  the  sod — 

0  glory  inconceivable  and  vast! 
Awful  as  fate,  and  silent  as  the  past — 
Dimly,  an  infinite  ascent  to  God. 

Not  mine  that  land,  in  days  afar  or  near. 
How  could  I  ever  long  its  shores  to  win  ? — 

1  who  strain  upward  toward  an  atmosphere 
Of  sovereign  calm,  so  thin  and  crystal  clear 
All  lower  life  must  faint  and  die  therein. 


THE  LEVEL  LAND  53 

Yet  is  my  path  encompassed  by  the  spell. 
It  lurks  in  written  page  and  carven  stone, 
And  blossoms  from  our  laboured  gardens  tell 
Of  fair  lands  golden-crowned  with  asphodel, 
Where  joys  and  flowers  spring  up,  alike  unsown. 
What  marvel  if  at  times  I  dream  again, 
When  earth  is  warm,  and  heaven  is  blue  above, 
And  yearning  for  that  vision  sweet  and  vain, 
Shrink  from  the  soul's  high  heritage  of  pain  ? 
O  land— fair  land!  O  level  land  I  love! 


51 


OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS. 
NIGHT. 

The  tardy  night  is  here.     I  welcome  it, 
Since  darkness  makes  me,  for  a  little  while 
Fair  as  my  fellow-girls.     These  eyes  alone, — 
On  which  my  form  is  branded  as  with  fire  — 
Can  see  me,  now  the  world  is  blind  with  night 
And  hushed  in  heavy  sleep.     I  would  there  were 
No  morning  light  to  throw  a  covering  shape, 
Distorted  past  distortion,  on  the  wall  ! 

I  am  alone.     I  think  there  is  no  girl 
Who  would  not  shudder,  were  she  left  alone 
With  such  deformity,  in  doubtful  night, 
WTho,  flying  from  the  horror,  would  not  claim 
Your  pity.     But  my  shuddering  loneliness 
Lasting  so  long  outlasts  all  sympathy. 
The  golden  cord,  as  strong  as  loving  arms, 


OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS  \ 

With  which  compassion  girds  us  in  our  pain 
And  holds  us  up,  is  drawn  through  lengthened  years 
To  gossamer,  that  on  the  summer  air 
Drifts  uselessly,  and  all  unheeded,  breaks. 

Now  is  the  time,  when,  kneeling  by  their  beds, 

Girls  pray  in  whispers,  gentle  faces  bowed 

Upon  their  folded  hands.     And  while  their  lips 

Pause,  ere  a  name  be  uttered,  they  may  glide 

Unwittingly,  from  prayer  to  reverie, 

Then  waken  with  a  start,  all  rosy-red 

With  shame  and  tenderness,  as  if  they  stayed 

To  clasp  fond  hands  upon  the  narrow  way 

And  found  their  backs  were  turned  on  Paradise  ! 

If  a  stray  thought  of  me  should  cross  their  minds 

Would  they  not  pity  me  ?     Yet  they  would  say 

'  Surely  her  prayers  are  purer  far  than  ours, 

Untroubled  by  these  sweetly  wilful  dreams. 

No  eager  eyes  meet  hers,  to  draw  aside 

Her  upward  gaze,  no  softly  lingering  words 

Will  fill  her  ears  with  music,  when  at  night 

She  listens,  till  the  Spirit  shall  say,  Come. 

'Tis  hard  for  us  to  put  the  joy  aside  ; 

But  she — now  shall  she  not  win  heaven,  who  needs 

Must  scorn  the  world  ?     How  shall  she  not  embrace 

God's  love,  to  whom  the  love  of  man  is  nought  ? ' 


57 


OUT  OF   THE  DARKNESS 

To  whom  the  love  of  man  is  nought  !     0  fools  ! 

It  is  for  that  I  moan  in  blackest  night. 

My  soul  is  burning  in  a  quenchless  thirst 

For  love.     My  fancy  roams  through  endless  dreams,- 

Known  all  the  time  for  sickening  emptiness — 

Dreams,  still  of  love.     O  for  a  word,  one  word  ! — 

Yet  every  word  is  like  a  stinging  lash, 

Pity  or  insult,  both  are  agony  ! 

For  one  fond  touch — yet  every  touch  is  fire  ! 

Nothing  but  human  eyes  can  give  the  love 

I  die  for — eyes  that  brand  me  when  they  glance  ! 

Thus  evermore  I  moan  in  blackest  night. 

Were  I  a  poet  I  might  acquiesce 

In  this  accursed  burden  of  the  flesh, 

Lie  crushed  and  quiet,  while  my  song  uprose 

And  rang  above  the  heads  of  stately  men 

And  fairest  women,  bidding  them  look  up 

Unto  my  dreams,  more  fair  and  stately  still. 

I  too  might  lift  my  eyes,  and  see  myself, 

As  they  would  see  me,  soaring  high  as  heaven. 

Had  I  such  wings  I  might  afford  to  scorn 

The  ugliness  that  no  one  then  would  heed. 

When,  in  the  final  hour  of  swaying  fight, 

The  trumpet  notes  ring  keen  through  ear  and  soul, 

Who  stops  to  cavil  at  the  trumpet's  form  ? 


OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS  51 

But  here  am  I,  misshapen,  slow  of  speech, 

Having  within  me,  for  my  only  gift, 

The  woman's  power  of  answering  love  with  love. 

O  mockery  !     I  read  it  in  the  eyes, 

The  searching,  scorching  eyes  that  madden  me  ! 

Why  was  not  I  a  creature  born  to  fight  ? 

Born  to  give  hate  for  loathing  ?     That  were  well. 

But  here  lies,  helplessly,  a  human  heart 

Which  every  careless  passer-by  may  spurn, 

A  human  heart  that  aches  in  blackest  night. 

'  Morbid  ! '  the  world  protests.     '  This  anguish  looms 

Large,  through  the  mist  of  your  distempered  dreams. 

gome  mock  at  you  no  doubt,  but  mockery 

Is  mostly  want  of  thought.     And  many  a  glance 

Looks  kindlier  on  you,  for  sweet  pity's  sake, 

And  lingers  gently.     Why  will  you  repulse 

Such  glances  ? ' 

I  am  parched  with  thirst  for  love. 
And  do  you  bid  me  quench  my  thirst  with  this 
The  shattered  spray  of  love's  out-pouring  tide, 
Only  a  scanty  dew,  the  niggard  shower 
Of  pity,  spared  from  love,  and  never  missed  ! 
Shall  I  drink  this  ?     I  say  it  mocks  my  lips — 
It  is  not  pity  that  I  need,  but  love  ! 


58  OUT  OF   THE  DARKNESS 

Vainly  I  make  my  moan  in  blackest  night. 

Again  the  world  comes  in  '  Love  God  !  Love  God  !  ' 

Why  should  I  love  Him,  since  He  loves  not  me, 

Nor  ever  cared  to  teach  me  how  to  love, 

By  perfect  love  of  any  soul  on  earth  ? 

He  is  Omnipotent — a  cripple  I. 

It  may  be  that  hereafter  He  will  show 

Love  in  despite  of  this — but  can  He  ask 

That  I  should  read  His  love  in  very  wrong  ? 

It  may  be.     Yet  I  know  not.     This  I  know, 

That  I  am  daily  learning  how  to  hate, 

With  deadliest  hatred,  born  of  love  repulsed  ! — 

But  if  thus  warped  in  heart  I  were  to  find 

Another  woman,  tortured  like  myself, 

And  felt  within  my  soul  the  smallest  gift 

Of  help,  I  could  not  hold  my  hand,  my  hate 

Could  never  reach  such  height  of  cruelty 

As  can  this  love  of  God — if  it  be  love, 

And  not  a  cold,  supreme,  eternal  scorn. 

'Nay,  but  the   Christ'   you   say  'Who  leans   from 

heaven, 
The  Man  of  sorrows,  stretching  wounded  hands, 
To  clasp  and  hold  the  hands  of  sorrowing  men, 
Christ  who  was  scourged,  and  mocked  and  crucified, 
Christ,  like  yourself,  rejected  and  despised, 


OUT  OF   THE  DARKNESS  59 

Enthrone  Him  in  your  heart,  your  Lord  and  Love, 
And  you  shall  have  no  need  of  love  of  man. 

Vainly  you  plead.     I  look,  but  answer  No. 

If  I  were  fair  enough  for  men  to  seek 

It  might  be  I  could  put  their  love  aside 

To  choose  the  mystic  Bridegroom,  clasp  that  sweet 

Eternal,  yearning,  melancholy  Love, 

And  keep  a  white  virginity  for  Him. 

Not  now.     I  will  not  give  for  sacrifice 

That  which  all  men  deride  ;  nor  offer  dumb 

Endurance,  as  submission  to  God's  will ; 

Nor  loathed  loneliness  for  chastity  ! 

Talk  not  of  Christ— what  is  your  Christ  to  me  ? 
Rejected,  scorned— O  easy  scorn  to  bear  ! 
Let  millions  mock,  if  here  and  there  a  heart 
Carries  its  love  for  you  through  all  the  years, 
Nay  if  but  one  were  faithful,  that  were  all. 
One  heart  may  be  a  world.     A  world  !     One  heart 
May  hold  the  meaning  of  the  universe 
Revealed  to  loving  eyes.     But  as  for  me, 
What  is  your  Christ  to  me  ?     Look  on  that  face, — 
Pressed  like  a  signet  on  the  souls  of  men — 
See  where  he  stands,  a  dreamer,  prophet,  king, 
Half  feminine,  but  with  a  something  else 


60  OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS 

Which  being  hardly  human,  may  be  God. 
See  little  children  crowd  around  his  knees, — 
The  children  who  would  scream  in  fear  and  hate 
At  sight  of  me  ! — Look  on  him  where  he  sits 
At  his  last  supper,  sought  by  ardent  eyes 
That  swear  devotion,  while  the  man  he  loves 
Leans  on  his  bosom — Not  till  earth  denied 
Some  hunted  wretch  a  moment's  resting  place, 
Would  head  be  ever  laid  on  heart  of  mine  ! — 
See  him  once  more,  with  sunlight  and  blue  air 
Around  him,  and  the  lilies  at  his  feet — 
See  the  great  multitude  stand  hushed,  intent 
To  lose  no  syllable  of  pleading  love — 
See — He  stands  up  and  speaks— and  crouching,  I 
Stammer  defiant  hatred  in  the  dark  ! 

Go,  preach  your  Christ,  rejected  and  despised 
'Mid  those  to  whom  the  words  are  meaningless. 
Preach  your  All-loving  and  Almighty  God 
To  those  He  blesses.     As  for  me,  I  pray 
To  one  God  only — black  Forgetfulness  ! 


OUT  OF   THE  DARKNESS  61 


MORNING 

It  was  a  dream  !     The  daylight,  pitiless, 
Comes  like  a  murderer  !     A  dreary  streak 
Stabs  through  the  parted  curtains,  and  the  night 
Grows  pale,  and  dies.     O  would  to  God  that  I 
Could  blind  the  hateful  sun  that  glares  on  me 
And  blot  him  from  the  sky,  for  he  has  slain 
The  sweetest  dream  that  soul  has  ever  known. 

God  !  Give  me  death  !  Or  give  me  back  my  dream  ! 

The  cruel  sun  has  killed  it,  and  I  live 

To  mourn  it  endlessly  beneath  his  eye, — 

My  dream  that  blossomed  in  the  loving  night  ! 

There  is  no  shade  in  all  the  sultry  world 

And  I  shall  never  find  my  joy  again. 

Shut  out  the  sunlight,  let  me  press  my  face 

Upon  the  pillow  where  I  slept,  and  pray. — 

For  I  believe  there  is  a  God  who  loves  ! 

Last  night  I  flung  myself  upon  my  bed 
Bitter,  and  sick  at  heart.     Sleep  kissed  my  eyes 
And  I  was  walking  in  an  unknown  land. 
It  was  no  garden,  rich  with  fabled  fruit, 


62  OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS 

No  wondrous,  dragon-haunted  paradise, 

But  a  wide  harvest  plain  of  tawny  gold, 

A  glad  and  fruitful  cornland.     Overhead 

An  arch  of  purple  heaven,  unclouded,  still, 

Bent  to  the  far  horizon  ;  in  the  west 

It  met  a  shadowy  line  of  purple  sea, 

But,  looking  towards  the  dawn,  no  eye  could  part 

The  ripened  yellow  from  the  saffron  light. 

Tranquil  and  deep  there  lay  a  chain  of  pools 
Full  to  the  brim,  like  wine-cups  at  a  feast. 
All  darkly  pure  they  slumbered,  and  their  glass 
Was  thinly  sown  with  white  and  starlike  buds 
Of  sleeping  lilies.     Rushes'  tufted  spears 
Stood  round  their  margins,  but  no  shadowing  tree 
Hung  over  them.     Between  them  and  the  height 
Was  nought,  and  each  one  held  the  solemn  sky. 

It  was  an  unknown  hour,  a  world  unknown. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  hush  before  the  dawn, 
For  all  the  air  was  calm,  and  dewy  sweet. 
It  might  be,  yet  the  orient  crocus  flame 
Changed  not,  not  yielded  to  the  glaring  day, 
But  kept  its  tender  charm — as  if  a  slim 
Boy-herald,  golden-haired,  and  saffron-clad, 
Stood  on  the  eastern  threshold,  but  forgot 


OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS  63 

His  errand,  leaned  to  look  with  poet-eyes, 
And  feared  to  wake  the  land  that  was  so  still. 

No  reapers  reaped  in  the  upstanding  corn, 
No  women  gleaned,  no  little  children  sought 
The  poppies,  flaunting  'mid  the  ripened  ears. 
No  swift  birds  flew  across  the  purple  heaven, 
No  burnished  flies  skimmed  o'er  the  dusky  pools, 
No  light  breeze  stirred  the  myriad  golden  stalks, 
Nor  roused  a  ripple.     There  was  nought  that  moved 
In  that  fair  country  but  my  love  and  I. 

My  love  !     Come  back  to  me,  my  vanished  love, 
Out  of  the  vanished  night  !     My  widowed  hands 
Seek  yours  in  vain,  and  all  the  world  is  blank 
Because  I  cannot  find — No  !  not  your  eyes  ! 
Spare  me  that  torture,  Heaven  ! — I  seek  you  not  ! 
O  God  !  he  could  not  love  me  'neath  the  sun  ! 

Yet  how  we  loved  beneath  that  purple  sky, 
Slow  moving  through  the  silent  plain  of  gold, 
Passing  the  waveless  waters.     There  we  paused, — 
A  pause  like  that  a  skilled  musician  makes, 
Which  in  itself  is  music  and  delight — 
And  gazed  upon  their  depths.     A  moment  they 
Mirrored  my  love,  fit  form  for  such  a  heaven  ! 


64  OUT  OF   THE  DARKNESS 

I  envied  them  their  bliss,  until  our  eyes 

Met  in  a  smile  that  filled  my  soul  with  peace. 

I  did  not  long  to  see  my  image  there  ; 

There  was  no  need,  since  he  had  smiled  on  me  ; 

And  through  his  eyes  I  saw  my  loveliness, 

Knew  myself  graceful  as  the  ripened  corn, 

Pure  as  the  dewy  air,  and  fairer  far 

Than  lilies  on  the  dusky  purple  pools. 

Ah,  how  we  loved  !     And  yet  we  were  not  one, 

For  he  was  not  myself,  though  not  apart, 

But  as  ft  were  an  inner  soul  of  mine, 

A  new  and  nobler  life  within  my  own. 

I  scarcely  think  our  voices  broke  the  spell 
Of  that  sweet  silence.     Much  he  spoke  to  me, 
But  uttered  it  in  swifter,  finer  wise 
Than  through  the  clumsy  help  of  groping  words, 
So  that  I  rather  heard  with  heart  than  ear, 
How  he,  through  lonely  life,  in  love  with  Love, 
Found  none  on  whom  to  lavish  all  the  love 
That  ached  within  him,  till,  beside  the  pools, 
He  looked  into  my  eyes,  and  on  his  soul 
There  sank  a  perfect  stillness  of  content. 

Was  there  no  music  in  that  golden  land  ? 
I  think  the  music  and  the  land  were  one. 


OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS  65 

The  pools  which  shadowed  in  their  shadowy  tide 
The  far  and  purple  height,  were  yearning  strains, 

The  arching  heaven  had  solemn  harmony. 

The  happy  cornland  sang  of  fruitful  joy. 

I  looked  upon  my  love — his  perfect  face 

So  darkly  soft  upon  the  saffron  sky, 

Was  music  of  exceeding  tenderness. 

And  as  we  wandered  onward,  side  by  side, 

Our  bodies,  fair,  and  free  and  nobly  poised, 

Swayed  in  the  sweetest  rhythm,  each  to  each, 

An  endless  love  song.     Music  there  was  none 

That  quivers  in  the  strings  of  lute  and  harp, 

Rings  clearly  out  from  silver  trumpet  throat 

Or  breathes  in  passion  of  a  singer's  voice — 

No  little  gushing  rills  of  melody, 

Which  flow  awhile,  then  cease.     But  we  had  come 

Unto  the  fount  and  well-spring  of  all  music  ; 

Unfathomed,  unprofaned,  eternal,  full, 

And  therefore  still,  but  music's  very  soul : 

How  shall  I  tell  the  ending  of  my  dream  ? 

A  luckless  wretch  was  pent,  they  say,  for  years 
Within  a  dungeon.     Unto  him,  unmanned, 
Despairing,  weak,  a  great  deliverance  came. 
He  knew  not  how  he  passed  the  watchful  guards, 

F 


66  OUT  OF   THE  DARKNESS 

And  gained  his  freedom  j  but  he  staggered  forth 

Into  the  happy  world  of  trees  and  flowers. 

He  felt  the  grass  beneath  his  feet,  the  air 

Upon  his  face,  the  sky  above  his  head, 

God  over  all.     He  could  not  even  think 

That  he  was  free — was  free  ! — but  drunk  with  bliss, 

Rushed  onward  in  a  rapture,  just  to  meet 

His  gaoler,  duly  warned,  and  waiting  him, 

Not  angry,  not  alarmed,  but  with  a  smile 

Lurking  about  his  mouth,  and  in  his  eyes, — 

And  all  the  dungeon  in  that  quiet  smile  ! 

How,  think  you,  felt  that  thunderstricken  dupe  ? 

Was  it  as  I  felt,  when  the  mocking  sun 

Stared  in  my  face,  and  all  my  dream  was  dead  ? 

My  love  is  gone  !     Gone  my  one  glimpse  of  joy  ! 
My  doom  is  still  upon  me  !     I  must  wear 
This  hideous  mask,  and  with  misshapen  limbs 
Drag  my  dull  burden — hide  in  darkest  holes — 
Hunted  for  ever  by  the  laughing  light 
That  looked  upon  my  love  and  murdered  him  ! 

But  I  am  not  the  same.     You  see  no  change, 
And  yet  I  am  new  born  since  yesternight. 
Born  to  new  anguish,  to  a  longing  love, 
To  endless  yearning  at  the  core  of  life, 


OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS  67 

To  pain  so  exquisite,  so  keen,  so  dear, 

Not  for  one  moment  would  I  let  it  go 

Out  of  my  heart.     And,  clasping  it,  I  scorn 

The  coarser  joys  that  pass  for  happiness 

With  those  who  never  knew  a  dream  like  mine ! 

Narrow  and  dull  and  hopeless  is  the  world, 
But  in  my  soul  I  hide  the  crocus  light 
Of  that  unchanging  dawn.     And  O  my  love  ! 
Slain  by  the  sunlight,  evermore  you  live 
Within  the  mournful  shadows  of  my  life, 
And  all  the  dusk  is  dear  for  your  dear  sake. 
O  love  of  mine  !     You  taught  me  how  to  weep, 
Teaching  me  how  to  love  you,  and  my  tears 
Have  more  than  sweetness  in  their  bitter  salt  ! 

Even  my  dungeon  world  is  not  the  same, 
For  it  may  vanish,  as  it  vanished  then, 
Perhaps  for  ever.     And  I  have  a  thought — 
Almost  a  hope — that  when  in  God's  good  time 
The  world  shall  greet  its  latest  dawn,  He  may 
Remember  me.     His  heaven — so  say  the  priests — 
Means  multitudes,  and  victory,  and  joy, 
One  life  of  rapture  in  a  myriad  souls. 
But — since  on  earth  I  lived  so  long  apart, 
That  to  my  mind  a  crowd  can  mean  but  pain, 

f  2 


68  OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS 

Torture,  and  loneliness — I  think,  perhaps, 
That  when  His  countless  saints  triumphantly 
Rejoice  around  Him,  He  may  look  aside, 
And  let  the  two,  on  whom  He  smiled  last  night, 
Slip  out  of  all  the  splendour  and  the  song, 
To  walk  together  'neath  the  purple  sky, 
Beside  the  lilied  pools,  and  through  the  corn, 
In  the  melodious  silence  of  my  dream. 

But,  if  that  may  not  be,  O  let  me  keep 
Remembrance  to  the  last  !     Have  mercy,  God 
Nor  heal  me  of  the  pain  that  is  my  soul  !  \ 

February  1875. 


69 


A  JAPANESE  FAN.1 

How  time  flies  !    Have  we  been  talking 

For  an  hour? 
Have  we  been  so  long  imprisoned 

By  the  shower 
In  this  old  oak-panelled  parlour  ? 

Is  it  noon  ? 
Don't  you  think  the  rain  is  over 

Rather  soon  ? 

Since  the  heavy  drops  surprised  us, 

And  we  fled 
Here  for  shelter,  while  it  darkened 

Overhead  ; 
Since  we  leaned  against  the  window, 

Saw  the  flash 
Of  the  lightning,  heard  the  rolling 

Thunder  crash  ; 

First  published  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  for  September  1876. 


7o  A   JAPANESE   FAN 

You  have  looked  at  all  the  treasures 

Gathered  here, 
Out  of  other  days  and  countries 

Far  and  near  ; 
At  those  glasses,  thin  as  bubbles, 

Opal  bright — 
At  the  carved  and  slender  chessmen 

Red  and  white — 
At  the  long  array  of  china 

Cups  and  plates — 
(Do  you  really  understand  them  ? 

Names  and  dates  ?) 
At  the  tapestry,  where  dingy 

Shepherds  stand, 
Holding  grim  and  faded  damsels 

By  the  hand, 
All  the  while  my  thoughts  were  busy 

With  the  fan 
Lying  here — bamboo  and  paper 

From  Japan. 
It  is  nothing — very  common — 

Be  it  so ; 
Do  you  wonder  why  I  prize  it  ? 

Care  to  know  ? 
Shall  I  teach  you  all  the  meaning, 

The  romance 


A   JAPANESE  FAN  71 

Of  the  picture  you  are  scorning 
With  a  glance  ? 

From  Japan  !    I  let  my  fancy 

Swiftly  fly  j 
Now  if  we  set  sail  to-morrow, 

You  and  I, 
If  the  waves  were  liquid  silver, 

Fair  the  breeze, 
If  we  reached  that  wondrous  island 

O'er  the  seas, 
Should  we  find  that  every  woman 

Was  so  white, 
And  had  slender  upward  eyebrows 

Black  as  night  ? 
Should  we  then  perhaps  discover 

Why,  out  there, 
People  spread  a  mat  to  rest  on 

In  mid  air  ? 

Here's  a  lady,  small  of  feature, 

Narrow-eyed, 
With  her  hair  of  ebon  straightness 

Queerly  tied  ; 
In  her  hand  are  trailing  flowers 

Rosy  sweet, 


72  A   JAPANESE  FAN 

And  her  silken  robe  is  muffled 

Round  her  feet. 
She  looks  backward  with  a  conscious 

Kind  of  grace, 
As  she  steps  from  off  the  carpet 

Into  space  ; 
Though  she  plants  her  foot  on  nothing 

Does  not  fall, 
And  in  fact  appears  to  heed  it 

Not  at  all. 
See  how  calmly  she  confronts  us 

Standing  there — 
Will  you  say  she  is  not  lovely  ? 

Do  you  dare  ? 
/  will  not  !    I  honour  beauty 

Where  I  can, 
Here's  a  woman  one  might  die  for  ! 

— In  Japan. 

Read  the  passion  of  her  lover — 

All  his  soul 
Hotly  poured  in  this  fantastic 

Little  scroll. 
See  him  swear  his  love,  and  vengeance 

Read  his  fate  — 


A   JAPANESE  PAN  73 

You  don't  understand  the  language  ? 
I'll  translate. 

■  Long  ago,'  he  says,  '  when  summer 

Filled  the  earth 
With  its  beauty,  with  the  brightness 

Of  its  mirth  ; 
When  the  leafy  boughs  were  woven 

Far  above ; 
In  the  noonday  I  beheld  her, 

Her — my  love  ! 
Oftentimes  I  met  her,  often 

Saw  her  pass, 
With  her  dusky  raiment  trailing 

On  the  grass. 
I  would  follow,  would  approach  her, 

Dare  to  speak, 
Till  at  last  the  sudden  colour 

Flushed  her  cheek. 
Through  the  sultry  heat  we  lingered 

In  the  shade  ; 
And  the  fan  of  pictured  paper 

That  she  swayed 
Seemed  to  mark  the  summer's  pulses, 

Soft  and  slow, 


74  A   JAPANESE  FAN 

And  to  thrill  me  as  it  wavered 

To  and  fro. 
For  I  loved  her,  loved  her,  loved  her, 

And  its  beat 
Set  my  passion  to  a  music 

Strangely  sweet. 

Sunset  came,  and  after  sunset 

When  the  dusk 
Filled  the  quiet  house  with  shadows  ; 

And  the  musk 
From  the  dim  and  dewy  garden 

Where  it  grows, 
Mixed  its  perfume  with  the  jasmine 

And  the  rose; 
When  the  western  splendour  faded, 

And  the  breeze 
Went  its  way,  with  good-night  whispers 

Through  the  trees, 
Leaning  out  we  watched  the  dying 

Of  the  light, 
Till  the  bats  came  forth  with  sudden 

Ghostly  flight. 
They  were  shadows,  wheeling,  flitting 

Round  my  joy, 


A   JAPANESE  FAN  75 

While  she  spoke  and  while  her  slender 

Hands  would  toy 
With  her  fan,  which  as  she  swayed  it 

Might  have  been 
Fairy  wand,  or  fitting  sceptre 

For  a  queen. 
When  she  smiled  at  me,  half  pausing 

In  her  play, 
All  the  gloom  of  gathering  twilight 

Turned  to  day  ! 

Though  to  talk  too  much  of  heaven 

Is  not  well — 
Though  agreeable  people  never 

Mention  hell — 
Yet  the  woman  who  betrayed  me — 

Whom  I  kissed — 
In  that  bygone  summer  taught  me 

Both  exist. 
I  was  ardent,  she  was  always 

.   Wisely  cool, 
So  my  lady  played  the  traitor, 

I— the  fool ! 

Oh,  your  pardon  !   But  remember, 

If  you  please, 


76  A   JAPANESE  FAN 

I'm  translating — this  is  only 
Japanese. 

1  Japanese  ? '  you  say,  and  eye  me 

Half  in  doubt ; 
Let  us  have  the  lurking  question 

Spoken  out. 
Is  all  this  about  the  lady 

Really  said 
In  that  little  square  of  writing 

Near  her  head  ? 
I  will  answer,  on  my  honour, 

As  I  can, 
Every  syllable  is  written 

On  the  fan. 
Yes,  and  you  could  learn  the  language 

Very  soon — 
Shall  I  teach  you  on  some  August 

Afternoon  ? 

You  are  wearied.     There  is  little 

Left  to  say ; 
For  the  disappointed  hero 

Goes  his  way, 
And  such  pain  and  rapture  never 

More  will  know. 


A   JAPANESE  FAN  77 

But  he  smiles — all  this  was  over 

Long  ago. 
I  am  not  a  blighted  being — 

Scarcely  grieve — 
I  can  laugh,  make  love,  do  most  things 

But  believe  ! 

Yet  the  old  days  come  back  strangely 

As  I  stand 
With  the  fan  she  swayed  so  softly 

In  my  hand. 
I  can  almost  see  her,  touch  her, 

Hear  her  voice, 
Till,  afraid  of  my  own  madness, 

I  rejoice 
That  beyond  my  help  or  harming 

Is  her  fate — 
Past  the  reach  of  passion — is  it 

Love — or  hate  ? 

This  is  tragic  !   Are  you  laughing  ? 

So  am  I  ! 
Let  us  go — the  clouds  have  vanished 

From  the  sky. 
Yes,  and  you'll  forget  this  folly  ? 

Time  it  ceased, 


78  A    JAPANESE  FAN 

For  you  do  not  understand  me 

In  the  least. 
You  have  smiled  and  sighed  politely 

Quite  at  ease, — 
And  my  story  might  as  well  be 

Japanese  ! 


^pi> 


79 


THE    UNKNO  WN  LAND. 
F.  WALKER.     Feb.  12,  1876. 

The  unknown  land 
Rises,  in  very  truth,  before  their  eyes — 

A  land  which  long  has  been 

Desired,  although  unseen, 
Unseen,  unknown,  and  yet  a  strong  desire  ! 

An  unknown  land, 
Whereof  dim  visions  floated  through  their  sleep, 
An  unknown  land,  beyond  an  unknown  deep — 

Now  within  reach  it  lies, 
And  drawn,  and  over-mastered  by  their  prize, 
With  eager  faces,  and  with  souls  on  fire, 

They  look  on  their  desire. 

It  is  so  near 
That,  as  the  boat  glides  landward,  they  can  hear 


80  THE    UNKNOWN  LAND 

The  sweet  lip-greeting  of  the  sea, 
The  whisper,  softly  strong,  of  waters  on  the  shore ; 

A  music  old 

Of  murmurs  manifold 
Yet  holding  somewhat  never  heard  before. 
Near — nearer  yet — the  land  where  they  would  be, 

It  is  so  near 

That  Hope  is  almost  Fear. 

It  lies  within  their  reach — 

The  joy  they  crave — 

Their  boat  has  touched  the  beach, 
They  wade  in  sudden  coolness  of  the  wave, 
Which  draws  them  in  its  tumult  of  retreat, 

Sucking  the  tawny  sand 

From  'neath  their  feet. 
There  is  a  pause — the  ocean  pulses  beat — 

Then  flows  the  tide  above  the  knee, 
And,  quickened  by  the  heart-throb  of  the  sea, 
Sweeps  those  who  long,  yet  waver  where  they  stand, 
With  one  vast  impulse  towards  the  unknown  land. 

What  shall  be  theirs  in  this  triumphant  hour  ? — 
The  folded  bud  of  longing,  faint  at  heart, 

Bursts  into  starry  flower, 
Crowning  a  day,  from  other  days  apart — 


THE    UNKNOWN  LAND  8r 

What  shall  be  theirs  within  their  new  domain  ? 
What  valleys,  cloven  in  the  fertile  earth— 

What  wondrous  birth 
Of  blossom,  garlanding  the  unknown  ways — 
What  snow-fed  torrents,  leaping  to  the  plain  — 

What  rocky  hills  that  hold 

Great  veins  of  virgin  gold, 
As  hearts  hold  memories  of  golden  days 

Gone  by — 
What  unimagined  glories  in  the  sky — 

What  music  of  strange  words — 

What  melody  of  birds 

That  pipe  and  sing, 
A-quiver,  'mid  the  green  leaves  quivering — 

What  joy  of  liberty  is  there — 

What  wide  and  unpolluted  air, 

In  this  new  land,  where  everything 
Is  full  of  hope,  and  wonderful,  and  fair  ! 

Yet,  even  while  they  lean,  with  lips  apart, 

And  yearning  eyes, 
In  stillness,  'neath  the  beating  of  each  heart, 

Lie  hidden  memories, 
That  make  no  sign,  but,  as  a  sleeper  lies 
Alive,  through  death-like  slumber,  so  they  rest 

In  every  breast — 

G 


THE    UNKNOWN  LAND 

Thoughts  of  a  far-off  home,  'neath  other  skies. 
Memories  of  a  land  of  memories. 

A  land  where  plain  and  hill 

Bear  record  still 
Of  triumph  or  defeat,  in  days  gone  by  ; 
A  land  that  lies  amid  encircling  waves, 
Where  multitudes  of  men  are  born  and  die  ; 
A  land  of  many  cities,  great  and  proud, 

A  land  of  many  graves. 

The  busy  craftsmen  crowd 
Its  trodden  ways  ;  the  plough,  with  yearly  toil, 
Makes  furrows  in  the  often-furrowed  soil  ; 

And  many  an  orchard  close 

Blossoms  in  white  and  rose, 

When  joyous  May  comes  round 

Again,  and  yet  again, 
And  little  children  play  upon  the  ground 

Beneath  a  snowy  rain 
Of  drifting  petals,  by  the  breezes  strewn. 

The  summer  sunlight  falls 

On  red  and  massive  walls, 

Built  long  ago — 
The  happy  birds  take  up  the  summer's  tune, 
And  tottering  folk,  whose  work  in  life  is  done, 

Sit  in  the  sun, 


THE   UNKNOWN  LAND  8j 

Where  roses  blow, 
And  watch  the  scythe,  that,  sweeping  to  and  fro, 

Lays  low 
The  ripened  grass  of  June. 

Even  the  flowers  in  that  historic  land, 

To  dreaming  fancy  seem  to  stand 

In  order  ranged ; 
Waiting  the  seasons'  call  to  take  their  part 
In  sweetest  masking,  year  by  year  unchanged, 

And  known  by  heart. 

Clad  in  their  festival  array, 

These  pretty  players  lift  the  head, 
Utter  the  words  of  poets  long  since  dead^ 

And  pass  away. 

Birds,  woods,  and  waters,  known  and  loved,  have  each 

Their  human  speech 
Of  softest  cadence,  and  transfigured  rise 
In  pictured  grace,  that  we  may  recognise 

The  loveliness  supreme 

Revealed  to  painters'  eyes. 

And  one  who  dwelt  within  this  land, 
And  found  new  beauty  in  its  blossoms  white, 

New  joy  in  field  and  stream  j 
And  added  by  the  labour  of  his  hand 

G  2 


THE   UNKNOWN  LAND 

Unto  its  hoarded  treasure  of  delight — 

Passing  beyond  our  sight, 
Has  left  a  sketch  like  this,  to  bid  us  muse  and  dream. 

But  even  as  we  stand 
Before  his  work,  and  with  a  lingering  gaze 

Give  him  our  grief  for  praise, 
We  wonder— has  he  found  the  Unknown  Land  ? 
And,  dead  to  us,  is  he  yet  living  there  ? 

Do  all  these  memories  to  him 

Seem  shadows,  colourless  and  dim  ? 

Does  he  look  back,  as  one  who  knows 
The  joy  of  June,  the  reddening  of  the  rose, 
Looks  back  to  March  with  all  its  bitter  days — 

As  one  who  breathing  summer  air 
Beneath  the  woven  shade  of  leafy  sprays 

With  crimson  buds  aglow, 
Thinks  for  a  moment  of  the  sprinkled  snow 
Of  blackthorn  blossom  on  the  branches  bare  ? 

Does  he  think  thus 
Of  all  his  work  that  is  so  fair  to  us  ? 

We  cannot  tell.     The  never-resting  stream, 
Drawn  towards  a  fate  unseen, 
Glides  onward  like  a  dream 
For  evermore. 


THE   UNKNOWN  LAND  85 

We  know  not  what  its  rippling  whispers  mean, 

Nor  if  its  final  wave 
Breaks  in  soft  triumph  on  a  sunlit  shore, 
Or  plunges  in  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 


86 


A  LU  TAN  J  ST. 

0  WELL-BELOVED  lute, 

Whence  sweetest  sounds  have  birth, 
From  thee  I  pluck  the  fruit 
Of  all  my  joy  on  earth. 

1  wear  my  queen's  device, 

And  her  white  hand  have  kissed — 
I  dwell  in  Paradise, 
I  am  her  lutanist. 

What  have  I  more  to  seek  ? 
Of  old,  erect  and  proud, 
I  went,  with  flushing  cheek, 
Through  plaudits  of  the  crowd. 
I  longed  to  soar  on  high, 
Until  one  day  I  wist 
That  kings  were  less  than  I, 
Who  am  her  lutanist. 


A   LUTANIST  87 

High  in  her  stately  house 

My  southern  window  shines, 

All  grown  about  with  boughs 

Of  leafy,  tangled  vines. 

My  sovereignty  is  there, 

A  world  of  sky  and  song, 

And  little  do  I  care 

To  gaze  upon  the  throng. 

The  busy  world  below 

May  hurry  on  apace, 

But  by  my  heart  I  know 

When,  homeward  from  the  chase, 

My  lady  passes  by, 

Her  falcon  on  her  wrist — 

Then  from  his  turret  high 

Looks  forth  her  lutanist 

I  turn  from  watchful  eyes, 

Yet  though  I  dream  apart, 

The  drowsy  music  lies 

Asleep  within  my  heart, 

Until  she  gives  command — 

Then  at  her  voice  it  stirs, 

And  pours  through  heart  and  hand, 

Which,  being  mine,  are  hers. 

And  thoughts  that  thrill  and  yearn, 


A   LUTANIST 

And  visions  sought  in  vain, 
Throng  all  around,  and  turn 
To  music  in  my  brain. 
A  spell  is  in  the  air 
That  nothing  may  resist, 
As  I  stand  playing  there 
Who  am  her  lutanist. 

And  stories  have  been  told 
Of  me  as  half  divine, 
Till  princes  offer  gold 
To  hear  this  skill  of  mine. 
Yet  I  should  linger  mute 
If  my  fair  dame  I  missed — 
For  I  am  but  the  lute, 
And  she  the  lutanist  ! 


So 


A    GAME   OF  PIQUET. 

See,  as  you  turn  a  page 
Of  Holbein's  Dance  of  Death, 
Across  the  narrow  stage, 
Drawing  a  hurried  breath, 
The  sons  of  men  go  by, 
Like  a  bewildered  dream, 
Beneath  a  changeless  sky 
An  ever-changing  stream. 
Swiftly  as  driven  clouds 
They  pass  in  love  and  strife, 
And  all  the  shifting  crowds 
Are  busy  with  their  life, 
Eager,  intent,  and  much 

Perplexed. 
Then  comes  the  deadly  touch— 

What  next  ? 


9o  A    GAME   OF  PIQUET 

We  do  not  paint  Death  now, 

As  did  those  men  of  old, 

(And,  truly,  I  allow 

They  make  my  blood  run  cold,) 

Yet  the  old  fancy  lives 

In  spite  of  growth  and  change, 

And  to  our  sorrow  gives 

Its  humour  grim  and  strange. 

The  bitter  wine  that  when 

We  meet  our  mocking  chance 

Is  stamped  from  souls  of  men 

In  Death's  fantastic  dance. 

As  when  the  cry  of  Love, 

Or  Hate, 
Rings  to  the  heaven  above 

Too  late. 

We  need  not  paint  the  scene, 
The  skull,  the  grasping  hand, 
For  that  which  once  has  been 
Our  hearts  will  understand. 
A  flower  may  be  the  sign 
That  calls  your  vision  back, 
Or  just  a  pencil  line 
In  some  old  almanac. 


GAME  OF  PIQUET  91 

A  pack  of  cards  for  me, 
Where  smiling  queen  and  knave 
Can  bid  me  turn  and  see 
A  shadow  and  a  grave, 
Nor  to  my  dying  day 

Forget 
How  once  I  used  to  play 

Piquet. 

Once,  in  a  quaint  old  place  ! 
My  dreamy  thoughts  recall 
Its  somewhat  faded  grace 
Of  painting  on  the  wall, 
Pink  roses  ribbon-tied. 
And  pairs  of  snowy  doves 
Tall  vases  side  by  side, 
And  lightly  flying  Loves, 
Such  as  our  poets  sing, 
Or  sang,  some  time  ago, 
Dan  Cupid  on  the  wing 
With  quiver,  shafts,  and  bow — 
But  Love  had  there  no  need 

Of  darts, 
He  simply  gave  the  lead 

In  Hearts. 


92  A    GAME   OF  PIQUET 

Into  the  sunlit  room 
To  break  the  half-played  game, 
With  heavy  stroke  of  doom, 
The  grief  of  parting  came. 
Strong  in  my  happy  love 
I  faced  the  bitter  pain, 
And  swore  by  heaven  above 
We  two  would  meet  again. 
Silent  I  saw  her  stand, 
Pallid,  in  trouble  sore, 
While  from  her  hanging  hand 
Slipped  downward  to  the  floor 
Black  cards,  whose  ominous 

Array 
Fate  had  not  suffered  us 

To  play. 

I  bade  a  brave  farewell 

Without  a  thought  of  fear, 

Ah  God  !     I  could  not  tell 

That  evil  day  was  near, 

When  Life's  glad  music  sank 

To  sobs,  and  died  away, 

When  Earth's  high  mountains  shrank 

To  one  low  heap  of  clay. 

When  I,  aghast  and  sad, 


A   GAME  OF  PIQUET  93 

Stood  silent  and  apart, 
When  all  Creation  had 
A  sepulchre  for  heart. 
No  love  the  unknown  land 

Invades, 
And  Death  played  out  the  hand 

Of  Spades. 


94 


FIRST  OR  LAST? 
A  WIFE  TO   HER   HUSBAND. 

'  My  life  ebbs  from  me — I  must  die, 
Must  die — it  has  a  ghostly  sound, 
A  far-off  thunder  drawing  nigh 
An  echo  as  from  underground. 
Yes,  I  must  die  who  fain  would  live ; 
You  cannot  give  me  life — alas  ! 
Dear  Love  of  mine,  you  can  but  give 
One  latest  kiss  before  I  pass. 

Dear,  we  have  had  our  summer  bliss, 
Kisses  on  cheek,  and  lip,  and  brow, 
But  soul  to  soul,  as  now  we  kiss, 
I  think  we  never  kissed  till  now. 
Give  both  your  hands,  and  let  the  earth 
Roll  onward — let  what  will  befall. 
This  is  an  hour  of  wondrous  birth) 
And  can  it  be  the  end  of  all  ? 


FIRST  OR  LAST?  95 

Ah,  your  sad  face  !     I  know  you  think 
(Clasp  me,  O  love,  your  faith  is  mine, 
Only  my  weakness  made  me  shrink) 
That  I  am  standing  on  the  brink 
Of  night  where  never  dawn  will  shine, 
Of  slumber  whence  I  shall  not  wake, 
Of  darkness  where  no  life  will  grope — 
I  know  your  hopeless  creed,  and  take 
My  part  therein  for  your  dear  sake, — 
We  stand  asunder  if  I  hope. 

And  yet  I  dreamed  of  a  fair  land 
Where  you  and  I  were  met  at  last, 
And  face  to  face,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Smiled  at  the  sorrow  overpast. 
The  eastern  sky  was  touched  with  fire, 
In  the  dim  woodlands  cooed  the  dove, 
Earth  waited,  tense  with  strong  desire, 
For  day — your  coming,  O  my  love  ! 
The  breeze  awoke  to  breathe  your  name, 
And  through  the  leafy  maze  I  came, 
With  feet  that  could  not  turn  aside, 
With  eyes  that  would  not  be  denied — 
My  lips,  my  heart  a  rosy  flame, 
Because  you  kissed  me  ere  I  died. 


FIRST  OR  LAST? 

Death  could  but  part  us  for  a  while, 
Beyond  the  boundary  of  years 
We  met  again — O  do  not  smile 
That  tender  smile,  more  sad  than  tears  ! 

Forget  my  vision  sweet  and  vain, 
Your  faith  is  mine — your  faith  is  best, 
Let  others  count  the  joys  they  gain, 
I  am  a  thousand  times  more  blest. 
They  can  but  give  a  scanty  dole 
Out  of  a  life  made  safe  in  heaven, 
While  I  am  sovereign  o'er  the  whole, 
I  can  give  all — and  all  is  given  ! 
Faith  such  as  ours  defies  the  grave, 
Nor  needs  a  dream  of  bliss  above — 
Shall  not  this  moment  make  me  brave  ? 
O  aloe-flower  of  perfect  love  ! 
What  though  the  end  of  all  be  come, 
The  latest  hour,  the  latest  breath, 
This  is  life's  triumph,  and  its  sum, 
The  aloe-flower  of  love  and  death  ! 

And  yet  your  kisses  wake  a  life 
That  throbs  in  anguish  through  my  heart, 
Leaps  up  to  wage  despairing  strife, 
And  shudders,  loathing  to  depart. 


FIRST  OR  LAST?  97 

Can  such  desire  be  born  in  vain — 

Crushed  by  inevitable  doom  ? 

While  you  let  live  can  Love  be  slain  ? 

Can  Love  lie  dead  within  my  tomb  ? 

And  when  you  die — that  hopeless  day 

When  darkness  comes  and  utmost  need, 

And  I  am  dead  and  cold,  you  say, 

Will  Death  have  power  to  hold  his  prey  ? 

Shall  I  not  know  ?    Shall  I  not  heed  ? 

When  your  last  sun,  with  waning  light, 

Below  the  sad  horizon  dips, 

Shall  I  not  rush  from  out  the  night 

To  die  once  more  upon  your  lips  ? 

Ah,  the  black  moment  comes  !    Draw  nigh, 
Stoop  down,  O  Love,  and  hold  me  fast. 
O  empty  earth  !     O  empty  sky  ! 
There  is  no  answer,  though  I  die 
Breathing  my  soul  out  in  the  cry, 
Is  it  the  first  kiss— or  the  last?' 


93 


A   DREAM  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

It  was  the  golden  time  of  ripened  grain, 
And  in  the  drowsy  sunlight  slept  a  plain 
Peaceful  and  fair.     The  idly  sighing  breeze 
Wandered  through  groves  of  summer-mellowed  trees, 
But  in  the  centre  was  a  guarded  course 
For  runners,  and  the  lists  for  feats  of  force  ; 
And  these  were  ringed  with  multitudes  of  eyes, 
And  all  the  air  was  thrilled  with  long-drawn  sighs, 
While  high  above  the  ardour  of  the  race 
Sat  Death,  enthroned  o'er  all  with  quiet  face. 

I  thought  I  gazed  on  him,  and  men  drew  near 
Prepared  for  battle,  saying,  '  Have  no  fear. 
True  that  he  sits  for  ever  throned  on  high, 
And  rules  o'er  all  things,  yet  you  shall  not  die. 
True  that,  however  strong,  however  fleet, 
No  man  escapes  the  death  that  he  must  meet, 
Yet  face  him  boldly  in  the  final  strife, 
Death  is  an  empty  name,  and  he  is  Life.' 


A   DREAM  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH  99 

And  I  believed.     But,  waiting  for  that  hour, 

My  eyes  were  drawn  by  a  constraining  power, 

And  fastened  on  the  never-wavering  eyes 

Of  the  strange  masquer,  throned  in  kingly  guise. 

Where  was  the  faintest  change  that  should  proclaim 

Death  as  not  wholly  death  ?     It  never  came. 

His  was  a  stillness  earth  has  never  known, 

Not  the  white  lifelessness  of  carven  stone, 

But  perfect  silence  since  the  world  began, 

A  pause,  outlasting  all  the  life  of  man. 

God  !     Did  that  haunting  gaze  see  all,  or  nought  ? 

Were  those  eyes  blank,  or  filled  with  awful  thought  ? 

I  gazed  until  the  clamour  of  the  place 
Died  utterly,  and  left  me  face  to  face 
With  Death,  in  strangest  loneliness  apart. 
The  pulses  of  my  wildly  throbbing  heart 
Beat  time  for  all  creation — I  was  life, 
And  he  was  Death — I  waited  for  the  strife. 
When  should  it  be  ?     My  soul  within  me  burned, 
And  I  poured  forth  the  lesson  I  had  learned. 

1  Hearken,  O  Death  !     What  cause  have  I  for  fear 
Am  not  I  armed  to  battle  with  thee  here  ? 
Nameless  am  I,  and  thou  of  great  renown, 
Thou  shalt  o'erthrow  me,  thou  shalt  cast  me  down, 

h  2 


A   DREAM  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

Yet  by  thy  very  touch  I  shall  arise, 
And  thou  in  smiting  shalt  release  thy  prize. 
Thou  canst  not  conquer  me,  thou  canst  not  give 
A  death-wound  to  the  soul,  foredoomed  to  live  ! ' 

Rising  to  wild  defiance  of  my  fears 

My  voice  rang  out,  and  echoed  in  my  ears. 

Far  off,  in  warring  waves  I  heard  it  roll 

And  die  beneath  the  brooding  calm.     My  soul 

With  that  intense  and  momentary  strain, 

Lifted  the  silence,  but  it  sank  again. 

Slowly  it  sank  upon  the  burdened  air, 

And  flying  Time — nought  else  was  moving  there — 

Sped  with  hushed  lips,  nor  spake  of  hours  and  days, 

Beneath  the  great  endurance  of  that  gaze. 

I  waited,  till  a  voice  within  me  said, 

'  What  shall  Death  do  for  thee,  if  Death  be  dead  ?  ' 

If  Death  be  dead  !     The  sun,  the  arch  of  sky, 

The  air  about  me,  seemed  to  reel  and  die. 

Vain  were  the  hopeful  words  of  long  ago, 

And  warlike  armour  was  an  empty  show, 

Hiding  a  traitor  heart.     In  cold  despair, 

Having  no  spirit  more  to  do  and  dare, 

I  loosed  the  bands,  and  threw  it  all  aside. 

Then  through  my  veins  there  rushed  a  quickening  tide 


A   DREAM  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH  .oi 

Of  life,  delivered  from  an  icy  weight ; 
And  I  once  more  could  look  upon  my  fate, 
Once  more  I  stood — I  cried  with  hurrying  breath, 

*  See,  I  will  take  thee  now  for  very  Death, 

The  end  of  all  things,  utter  and  complete, 

And  I,  like  them,  shall  lie  beneath  thy  feet, 

As  nothing,  in  thy  gulf  of  nothingness. 

Yet  I  stand  up  before  thee,  none  the  less, 

Not  hoping  to  escape,  since  thou  art  sure, 

But  saying,  While  my  lifetime  may  endure, 

In  joy,  and  pain,  and  wonder  ;  it  is  mine — 

Only  the  blankness  and  the  end  are  thine  ! 

Is  my  life  short  ?     I  measure  not  its  flight, 

Let  me  maintain  it  on  a  level  height, 

That  I  may  look  thee  boldly  in  the  eyes, 

Not  gazing  upward  as  a  suppliant  dies. 

Let  me  live  nobly,  nobly  yield  thee  all — 

Thou  shalt  preserve  me,  Death,  from  future  fall  !  ' 

I  paused.     The  summer  breezes,  lingering,  sighed  ; 
There  was  no  other. answer.     Then  I  cried, 

■  Nay,  even  if  all  mankind  shall  seem  to  me 
Aimless,  confused,  an  ever-weltering  sea, 
Breaking  in  ebb  and  flow  against  thy  steep  ; 
And  I  myself  a  ripple  on  that  deep, 


$pj  A    DREAM  OF  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

Yet  will  I  scorn  thee — scorn  all  craven  fears, 
Flinging  on  high  my  handful  of  salt  tears 
To  flash  in  lucid  sunlight  as  I  die — 
And  Death,  if  it  be  Death,  will  I  defy  ! ' 
So  spoke  I  while  my  heart-throbs  came  apace, 

But  still  Death  sits  there,  with  the  quiet  face. 


io3 


A   STUDENT. 

For  him  the  past  has  poured  her  drowsy  wine ; 

And,  turning  from  all  beauty  'neath  the  sun, 
Ever  he  seeks  the  dim  horizon  line, 

Regions  afar,  where  earth  and  sky  are  one. 
Here,  in  this  central  moment  of  to-day, 
High  heaven  seems  so  very  far  away. 

Sadness  there  is,  not  sorrow,  on  his  brow, 

He  shrinks  alike  from  laughter  and  from  tears, 

When  happier  glances  hail  the  budding  bough, 
He  tracks  the  footsteps  of  departed  years, 

Where,  faintly  dim,  their  memories  linger  yet 

All  grown  about  with  moss  and  violet. 

His  fellow  men  our  student  little  heeds  ; 

His  pathway  lies  'mid  visionary  throngs — 
Spring,  though  he  meets  her  in  the  daisied  meads, 

Lives  for  him  only  in  her  ancient  songs; 
Nay,  very  Love  himself  he  does  but  know 
A  boy,  with  bow  and  arrows,  long  ago. 


104  A    STUDENT 

He  cannot  feel  for  human  hopes  and  fears, 
All  hopes  and  fears  are  chronicled  for  him, 

Unnoticed  glides  his  little  span  of  years, 
His  eyes  are  fixed  on  ages  vast  and  dim. 

He  dreams  of  bygone  days,  with  thoughtful  brow, 

Till  Life  stands  still,  and,  startled,  whispers  '  Now! ' 


io5 


PRIVATE   THEATRICALS} 
BEFORE  THE  CURTAIN  RISES. 

The  guests  assemble.     Down  the  stairs  I  steal, 
As  if  I'd  dressed  a  century  before, 

And  pause,  a  courtly  beau  from  head  to  heel, . 
Close  by  the  green-room  door. 

The  fire-light  glows  within  ;  the  leaping  blaze 
Shines  on  an  eager  face.     What  happy  spell 

Summoned  that  sweetest  glimpse  of  olden  days, 
That  arch  and  radiant  belle  ? 

Ready  to  play  her  part  in  quaint  disguise 
Of  powdered  hair  and  old  brocaded  gown, 

She  warms  a  dainty  foot,  nor  turns  her  eyes 
Where,  with  an  anxious  frown, 

1  First  published  in  the  Century  for  September  1884. 


106  PRIVATE    THEATRICALS 

Conning  his  book,  our  crafty  Villain  sits  ; 

Tall,  handsome,  honest,  he's  a  wealthy  squire- 
A  trifle  heavy — in  our  telling  bits 

He  rather  misses  fire. 


I  push  the  door,  and  meet  a  smile  from  each  : 
My  lady's  eyes  are  lifted  from  the  flame  ; 

(The  Villain  keeps  his  finger  on  a  speech, 
And  greets  me  by  my  name. 

I  am  the  happy  hero  of  the  play, 

With  Love,  and  Luck,  and  Valour  on  my  side  ; 
I  am  to  conquer  everything  to-day, 

I  am  to  win  my  bride. 

And  I  will  win  her  !     Ah,  they  do  not  know — 
Well  may  they  praise  me  as  I  act  my  part  ! 

This  courtship  of  a  hundred  years  ago 
Is  living  in  my  heart. 

Yet  I  can  plead  my  cause  without  the  aid 
Of  studied  phrases — they  are  poor  and  weak  j 

Wait  only  till  our  comedy  is  played — 
This  is  no  time  to  speak. 


PRIVATE    THEATRICALS  107 

The  actors  hurry  in,  and  one  and  all 

Appeal  to  me  to  listen  or  to  look. 
The  footman's  livery  is  a  size  too  small, 

The  prompter  wants  his  book. 


My  father  comes  to  show  his  wrinkled  face, 
And  loiters  nervously  behind  the  scenes  j 

I  praise  his  baldness  and  his  feeble  pace, — 
He's  only  in  his  teens  ! 

There  are  so  many  duties  to  perform, 
And  at  a  moment's  notice  I  must  say 

Who  is  to  see  about  the  thunder-storm, 
And  who  takes  in  the  tray. 

Where  is  the  fatal  deed  that  must  be  signed  ? 

I  give  them  all  their  answers,  and  by  chance, 
Lounging  beside  the  window,  lift  the  blind 

And  cast  a  careless  glance. 

Nothing  to  see — how  heavily  it  rains  ! — 
Nothing  but  here  and  there  a  gliding  spark, 

Where  carriages  along  the  country  lanes 
Come  rolling  through  the  dark. 


108  PRIVATE    THEATRICALS 

Beyond,  there  lies  a  world  of  gloom  unknown  ; 

Our  little  space  of  glitter,  warmth,  and  light 
Is  but  a  many-coloured  bubble,  blown 

On  a  black  sea  of  night. 

Well,  let  the  bubble  break  without  a  sigh, 
And  let  to-morrow  come,  as  come  it  will  ; 

I  am  the  happy  hero  till  I  die, 
If  she  is  with  me  still  ! 

And  when  hereafter  we  recall  this  day 

Of  painted,  powdered  courtship  from  the  past, 

We'll  laugh  at  stage  and  prompter,  while  I  play 
The  lover  to  the  last  ! 


AFTER  THE  CURTAIN  FALLS. 

All's  over  now.     It  was  a  great  success. 

Our  honest  Villain  did  the  best  he  could  ; 
Took  pains,  and  plodded  through  his  wickedness,-- 

He's  really  very  good  ; 

And  when  he  drove  the  lady  to  despair 

With  darkly  scowling  threats  and  feigned  alarms, 

I  rushed  upon  the  stage,  defied  him  there, 
And  clasped  her  in  my  arms  ! 


PRIVATE   THEATRICALS  109 

An  explanation  followed.  I  embraced 
A  few  relations,  quite  unknown  till  then  ; 

Virtue  was  lucky,  Villainy  disgraced — 
We  all  were  better  men. 


Then  came  my  wrinkled  sire — 'Nay,  I  mistook — 
You  won't  bear  malice  for  a  blunder — zounds  ! 

Take  your  old  father's  gift—  a  pocket-book,' — 
Twas  twenty  thousand  pounds. 

1  Bless  you,  my  children  !     She's  a  pearl,  my  boy  ! ' 
The  others  gathered  round  for  their  farewell, 

And  stood  in  attitudes,  and  wished  us  joy, 
And  so  the  curtain  fell. 


They  called  us  back.    The  laughing  plaudits  swelled 
To  welcome  us.     That  mo*ment  was  divine — 

The  token  of  my  triumph  !     As  I  held 
My  darling's  hand  in  mine, 

I  seemed  to  feel  her  happy  pulses  beat, 

As  mine  were  beating  in  my  joy  and  pride  ; 

I  trod  the  whole  world  underneath  my  feet 
Since  she  was  by  my  side  ! 


PRIVATE    THEATRICALS 

And  then — why,  as  we  passed,  I  overheard 
A  hurried  whisper,  caught  a  meaning  smile 

Enough — it  was  the  Villain  she  preferred  — 
The  Villain  all  the  while  ! 


That  was  the  end,  and  here  I  am  alone, 
Dismally  laughing  at  my  sorry  plight  ; 

I  listen  to  the  wind's  unceasing  moan, 
I  gaze  into  the  night, 

Only  to  see  my  pale  reflection  cast 

Upon  the  gloom.     A  bitter  lash  of  rain 

Falls,  with  a  sudden  fury  of  the  blast, 
On  the  black  window-pane. 

She  loves  him — loves  him  !     She  will  be  his  wife  ! 

And  strangely  I  recall,  as  here  I  stand, 
How  in  another  world,  another  life, 

I  bowed,  and  dropped  her  hand. 

What  did  I  think  of  as  I  bent  my  head  ? 

The  fire-light  flashed  upon  my  buckled  shoes — 
Poor  hero  !     Well,  there's  nothing  to  be  said — 

Was  she  not  free  to  choose  ? 


PRIVATE    THEATRICALS  in 

She  did  not  know  !     With  my  whole  heart  I  played. 

What  then  ?    She  thought  I  acted  well,  no  doubt ; 
If  Love  came  stealing  through  the  masquerade, 

How  should  she  find  him  out  ? 

She  did  not  know  !     God  bless  her  in  her  choice  ! 

(Ay,  and  the  Villain  too!)     No  thought  of  blame 
Shall  ever  lend  its  hardness  to  my  voice, 

When  I  would  speak  her  name. 

There  will  be  other  plays  in  coming  years 
When  this  is  half  forgotten  j  there  will  be 

New  scenes,  new  dresses,  and  new  hopes  and  fears — 
But  this  old  play  for  me  ! 

One  can't  be  always  learning  things  by  heart  ; 

Variety  is  charming — yet  it  palls. 
1  Zounds  ! ' — (as  the  father  said)— I'll  play  my  part 

Until  the  curtain  falls  ! 


OF  THE  PAST} 

White  flowers  lie  upon  her  breast  : 
Her  throbbing  pulses  are  at  rest ; 
A  circlet  glimmers  on  her  head  ; 
She  is  a  queen,  and  she  is  dead. 

Around  her  all  is  very  still  ; 
Unchanged,  behind  a  changeless  hill, 
The  western  sun  for  ever  dips, 
And  dying  splendours  kiss  her  lips. 

Her  passive  hand  a  sceptre  holds  ; 
Her  raiment  falls  in  stately  folds  ; 
Her  lashes  slumber  on  her  cheek  : 
The  world  would  listen  did  she  speak. 

1  First  published  in  Harpers  Magazine  for  February  1884. 


OF  THE  PAST  113 

She  will  be  still  for  evermore  : 
Though  crowned  king  or  emperor 
Made  bare  his  treasury  for  her, 
The  quiet  lips  will  never  stir. 


She  will  be  still ;  but  all  around, 
Voices,  which  speak  without  a  sound, 
Bid  tender  chords  awake  and  thrill, 
Telling  of  her,  though  she  is  still — 

Telling  how  days  had  winged  feet, 
How  childish  nights  had  slumber  sweet, 
And  little  many- coloured  dreams 
Shone  through  the  dark  in  fitful  gleams 

Then  kindly  Nature  round  us  curled, 
The  skies  bent  down  to  clasp  the  world, 
And  every  star,  a  beacon-light, 
Was  steadfast  on  its  stately  height. 

Content,  we  fronted  wonders  new, 
Rainbow  and  thunder,  fire  and  dew, 
And  deemed  the  very  highway  sod 
Untrodden  till  we  came  and  trod. 


ri4  OF   THE  PAST 

And  golden  were  the  days  of  youth, 
When  all  was  beauty,  joy,  and  truth, 
When  sordid  wealth  was  nothing  worth, 
For  Love  in  splendour  walked  the  earth. 

O  sweet  untroubled  vision,  stay  ! 
Cease,  thou  importunate  To-day, 
Cease  eager  toil,  and  clamour  shrill  ! 
We  are  with  her — and  she  is  still. 


"5 


A    TOWN  GARDEN} 

A  plot  of  ground— the  merest  scrap — 

Deep,  like  a  dry,  forgotten  well, 
A  garden  caught  in  a  brick-built  trap, 

Where  men  make  money,  buy  and  sell  ; 
And  struggling  through  the  stagnant  haze, 

Dim  flowers,  with  sapless  leaf  and  stem, 
Look  up  with  something  of  the  gaze 

That  homesick  eyes  have  cast  on  them. 

There  is  a  rose  against  the  wall, 

With  scanty,  smoke-incrusted  leaves  ; 
Fair  showers  on  happier  roses  fall — 

On  this,  foul  droppings  from  the  eaves. 
It  pines,  but  you  need  hardly  note  ; 

It  dies  by  inches  in  the  gloom  ; 
Shoots  in  the  spring-time,  as  if  by  rote  ; 

Long  has  forgotten  to  dream  of  bloom. 

1  First  published  in  Harper's  Magazine  for  August  1883. 

I  2 


n6  A    TOWN  GARDEN 

The  poorest  blossom,  and  it  were  classed 

With  colour  and  name — but  never  a  flower  ! 
It  blooms  with  the  roses  whose  bloom  is  past, 

Of  every  hue,  and  place,  and  hour. 
They  live  before  me  as  I  look — 

The  damask  buds  that  breathe  and  glow, 
Pink  wild  roses,  down  by  a  brook, 

Lavish  clusters  of  airy  snow. 

Could  one  transplant  you — (far  on  high 

A  murky  sunset  lights  the  tiles) — 
And  set  you  'neath  the  arching  sky, 

In  the  green  country,  many  miles, 
Would  you  strike  deep  and  suck  up  strength, 

Washed  with  rain  and  hung  with  pearls, 
Cling  to  the  trellis,  a  leafy  length, 

Sweet  with  blossom  for  June  and  girls  ? 

Yet  no  !    Who  needs  you  in  those  bowers  ? 

Who  prizes  gifts  that  all  can  give  ? 
Bestow  your  life  instead  of  flowers, 

And  slowly  die  that  dreams  may  live. 
Prisoned  and  perishing,  your  dole 

Of  lingering  leaves  shall  not  be  vain — 
Worthy  to  wreathe  the  hemlock  bowl, 

Or  twine  about  the  cross  of  pain  ! 


U7 


ALMOND  BLOSSOM} 

Love,  will  you  yet  regret  the  flowers  that  lie 
Scattered,  and  wet  with  tears  from  April's  sky  ? 
They  are  not  dead — the  flowers  can  never  die. 

They  are  the  gladness  of  a  world  unworn  ; 
They  sleep  and  waken  with  it,  night  and  morn, 
And  laugh  our  dreams  of  ancient  days  to  scorn. 

O'er  the  wide  gulfs  that  part  us  from  the  past, 
O'er  ruins  of  great  works  designed  to  last, 
The  lightly  woven  chain  of  flowers  is  cast  ; 

And  odours  of  old  gardens,  faintly  blown 

From  legendary  days  and  shores  unknown, 

Blend  with  the  breath  of  those  our  hands  have  sown. 

1  First  published  in  Harper  s  Magazine  for  August  1881. 


n8  ALMOND  BLOSSOM 


Of  Milton's  world  how  much  was  doomed  to  pass 

And  yet  we  linger  on  the  daisied  grass, 

And  pluck  the  flowers  he  plucked  for  Lycidas, 

And  still  the  spring-time  crowns  a  waiting  land 
With  tender  bloom.     Nay,  Love,  'tis  you  who  stand 
With  almond  clusters  in  your  clasping  hand, 

And  all  the  sunset  heaven  behind  your  head  ; 
Tis  you  must  pass,  an  unknown  way  to  tread, 
And  leave  the  flowers.     If  I  had  long  been  dead, 

Yet  came  from  sleep  of  twilight  centuries, 
The  almond  blossom  'neath  these  vernal  skies 
Should  welcome  me  again,  but  not  your  eyes. 

The  rosy  petals,  drifted  on  the  breeze, 

Might  strew,  as  now,  the  turf  beneath  the  trees. 

As  now  ?   No,  not  as  now.     Because  to  these 

Pink  sprays  of  almond,  for  a  little  space 
Your  musing  smile,  your  blossom-perfect  face, 
Give  a  supreme  and  solitary  grace. 


ii9 


OCTOBER.' 

Long  looked  for  was  the  summer.  Anxious  eyes 
Noted  the  budding  bough,  the  crocus  flame, 

That  told  its  coming.  Now,  'neath  autumn  skies 
The  leaves  fall  slowly,  slowly  as  they  came. 

There  is  no  need  to  watch  while  winter  weaves 
Fair  buds  to  crown  another  golden  prime, 

For  something  heavier  than  the  autumn  leaves 
Has  hidden  eyes  that  looked  for  summer-time. 

The  trees  shall  wake  from  their  forgetful  sleep 
Unto  new  blossom  and  a  tender  green — 

The  countless  trees  ! — but  never  one  will  keep 
A  little  leaf  or  flower  that  she  has  seen  ! 

1  First  published  in  Harpers  Magazine  for  November  1880. 


FROM  < MITCHELHURST  PLACE: 
AT  HER  PIANO. 

!  It  chanced  I  loitered  through  a  room, 
Dusk  with  a  shaded,  sultry  gloom, 
And  full  of  memories  of  old  times — 
I  lingered,  shaping  into  rhymes 
My  visions  of  those  earlier  days 
'Mid  their  neglected  waifs  and  strays  ; 
A  yellowing  keyboard  caught  my  gaze, 
And  straight  I  fancied,  as  I  stood 
Resting  my  hand  on  polished  wood, 
Letting  my  eyes  contented  trace 
The  daintiness  of  inlaid  grace, 
That  Music's  ghost,  outworn  and  spent, 
Dreamed  near  her  antique  instrument. 

'  But  when  I  broke  its  silence,  fain 
To  call  an  echo  back  again 
Of  some  old-fashioned,  tender  strain, 


FROM  '  M1TCHELHURST  PLACE' 

Played  once  by  player  long  since  dead— 

I  found  my  dream  of  music  fled  ! 

The  chords  I  wakened  could  but  speak 

In  jangled  utterance,  thin  and  weak, 

In  shallow  discords,  as  when  age 

Reaches  its  last  decrepit  stage, 

In  feeble  notes  that  seemed  to  chide — 

This  was  the  end  !   I  stepped  aside, 

In  my  impatient  weariness, 

Into  the  window's  draped  recess  ; 

Without,  was  all  the  joy  of  June, 

Within,  a  piano  out  of  tune  ! 

*  But  while,  half-hidden,  thus  I  stayed, 
There  came  in  one  who  lightly  laid 
White  hands  upon  the  yellow  keys 
To  seek  their  lingering  harmonies. 
I  think  she  sighed— I  know  she  smiled — 
And  straightway  Music  was  beguiled, 
And  all  the  faded  by-gone  years, 
With  all  their  by-gone  hopes  and  fears, 
Their  long-forgotten  smiles  and  tears, 
Their  empty  dreams  that  meant  sq  much, 
Began  to  sing  beneath  her  touch. 

'  The  notes  that  Time  had  taught  to  fret, 
Racked  with  a  querulous  regret, 


FROM  '  MITCHELHURST  PLACE' 

Forsook  their  burden  of  complaint 
For  melodies  more  sweetly  faint 
Than  lovers  ever  dreamed  in  sleep — 
Than  rippling  murmurs  of  the  deep — 
Than  whispered  hope  of  endless  peace 
Ah,  let  her  play  or  let  her  cease, 
For  still  that  sound  is  in  the  air, 
And  still  I  see  her  seated  there  ! 

*  Yet,  even  as  her  fingers  ranged, 
I  knew  those  jangled  notes  unchanged  ; 
My  soul  had  heard,  in  ear's  despite, 
And  Love  had  made  the  music  right.' 


AUTUMN   BERRIES. 

1  Speech  was  forbidden  me  ;  I  could  but  stay, 
Ambushed  behind  a  leafless  hawthorn  screen, 
And  look  upon  her  passing.     She  had  been 
To  pluck  red  berries  on  that  autumn  day, 
And  Love,  who  from  her  side  will  never  stray, 
Stole  some  for  pity,  seeing  me  unseen,         f 
And  sighing,  let  them  fall,  that  I  might  glean — 
1  Poor  gift,'  quoth  he,  { that  Time  shall  take  away  ! ' 


FROM  '  MITGHELHURST  PLACE'  123 

Nay  but  I  mock  at  Time  !    It  shall  not  be 
That,  fleet  of  foot,  he  robs  me  of  my  prize  j 
Her  smile  has  kindled  all  the  sullen  skies, 
Blessed  the  dull  furrows  and  the  leafless  tree, 
And  year  by  year  the  autumn,  ere  it  dies, 
Shall  bring  my  rosy  treasure  back  to  me  ! ' 


SONNET. 

1  Have  not  all  songs  been  sung— all  loves  been  told  ? 
What  shall  I  say  when  nought  is  left  unsaid  ? 
The  world  is  full  of  memories  of  the  dead — 
Echoes  and  relics.     Here's  no  virgin  gold, 
But  all  assayed,  none  left  for  me  to  mould 
Into  new  coin,  and  at  your  feet  to  shed  ; 
Each  piece  is  mint-marked  with  some  poet's  head, 
Tested  and  rung  in  tributes  manifold. 

1  Oh  for  a  single  word  should  be  mine  own, 
And  not  the  homage  of  long-studied  art, 
Common  to  all,  for  you  who  stand  apart  ! 
Oh  weariness  of  measures  tried  and  known  ! 
Yet  in  their  rhythm,  you — if  you  alone — 
Should  hear  the  passionate  pulses  of  my  heart  ! ' 


124 


A    WISH 

If  I  could  find  the  Little  Year, 

The  Happy  Year,  the  glad  New  Year — 

If  I  could  find  him  setting  forth 

To  seek  the  ancient  track — 

I'd  bring  him  here,  the  Little  Year, 

Like  a  pedlar  with  his  pack. 

And  all  of  golden  brightness, 

And  nothing  dull  or  black, 

And  all  that  heart  could  fancy, 

And  all  that  heart  could  lack, 

Should  be  your  share  of  the  pedlar's  ware, 

When  he  undid  his  pack. 

The  best  from  out  his  treasure 

A  smile  of  yours  would  coax, 

And  then  we'd  speed  him  on  his  way, 

At  midnight's  failing  strokes  ; 

And  bid  him  hurry  round  the  world, 

And  serve  the  other  folks  ! 


"5 


MOTHER  AND   CHILD} 

Bitter  blasts  and  vapours  dim  — 
What  had  they  to  do  with  him  ? 
Spring,  though  she  was  far  away, 
Took  dominion  for  a  day, 
Filled  the  air  with  breathings  soft, 
Bade  a  skylark  sing  aloft, 
When  we  laid  him  in  his  bed, 
Cloudless  blue  above  his  head. 

It  was  not  for  him  to  reach 

Manly  height,  and  thought,  and  speech, 

Not  to  climb  untrodden  steeps, 

Not  to  search  out  unknown  deeps, 

Not  through  warring  joy  and  pain 

Kingliness  of  soul  to  gain. 

1  First  published  in  the  Century  for  April  1883. 


126  MOTHER  AND   CHILD 

He  had  only  baby  words, 
Little  music,  like  the  birds, 
Sweetly  inarticulate, 
Nothing  wise,  nor  high,  nor  great. 
Sunny  smiles  and  kisses  sweet — 
White  and  softly  childish  feet — 
Curls  that  floated  on  the  breeze — 
We  remember  him  for  these. 

They  are  weary  who  are  wise. 
He  looked  up  with  happy  eyes, 
Little  knowing,  little  seeing, 
Only  praising  God  by  being. 

Oh,  the  life  we  could  not  save  ! 
Do  not  say,  above  his  grave, 
That  the  fair  and  darling  face 
Was  but  lent  a  little  space 
Till  the  Father  called  him  back, 
By  an  unknown  homeward  track. 
No,  though  Death  came  darkly  chill- 
Bade  the  beating  heart  be  still, 
Touching  him  with  fingers  cold — 
What  was  given  still  we  hold  j 
Though  he  died,  as  die  the  flowers, 
He  for  evermore  is  ours. 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD  127 

Ours,  though  we  must  travel  soon 
Onward  through  Life's  afternoon  j 
Shadows,  falling  long  and  grey, 
Gather  round  the  western  day, 
And  our  twilight  visions  show 
How  the  years  shall  come  and  go. 

Little  maids,  with  tangled  curls, 
Change  to  slender,  dreamy  girls  ; 
Chubby  rogues  grow  tall,  and  then 
Go  their  way  as  bearded  men. 
And  the  mother  stands  aside, 
With  an  ache  beneath  her  pride, 
And  a  sorrow  'mid  her  joys, 
For  the  vanished  babes  and  boys  ; 
So  the  earlier  gladness  wanes — 
But  the  little  one  remains. 

For  a  house  that  once  has  known 
Tiny  feet  on  stair  and  stone — 
Steps  that  never  more  shall  sound, 
Feet  at  rest  beneath  the  ground — 
Keeps  remembrance  of  the  dead, 
And  the  music  of  their  tread. 
Not  at  noonday,  busy,  bright, 
Only  in  the  quiet  night, 


128  MOTHER  AND   CHILD 


With  a  thrill  of  sweetest  pain, 
Comes  that  music  once  again, 
Heard  in  stillness  and  apart 
Echoed  from  his  mother's  heart. 


129 


MICHAELMAS  DAISIES.1 

Daisies  on  the  emerald  lawn, 
Daisies  rosy-white  for  dawn, 

Rosy-white  for  summer's  dawn, 
Michaelmas  daisies  grey  and  drear, 
Dusk  for  the  dusky  close  of  the  year, 

Michaelmas  daisies  for  close  of  the  year. 

The  year  is  old,  and  the  weary  wind 

Withers  its  glory,  leaf  by  leaf, 
Gone  is  the  garland  that  April  twined, 

Gone,  June  roses,  and  August  sheaf. 
The  apples  are  gone  from  the  orchard  boughs, 

Faded  the  creeper's  tangled  grace, 
The  bitter  blast  from  its  rest  must  rouse, 

For  winter  comes  on,  apace,  apace, 

1  First  published  in  the  Spectator,  April  1870. 


MICHAELMAS  DAISIES 

The  old  year  dreams  of  its  daisied  dawn, 

All  golden-bright,  and  rosy-white, 
Dreams  of  its  daisies  like  stars  on  the  lawn, 

And  makes  them  again  in  the  dusk  of  the  night. 

Daisies  on  the  emerald  lawn, 
Daisies  rosy-white  for  dawn, 

Rosy-white  for  summer's  dawn, 
Michaelmas  daisies  grey  and  drear, 
Dusk  for  the  dusky  close  of  the  year, 

Michaelmas  daisies  for  close  of  the  year. 


i3» 


A    CLOSED  BOOK. 

I  read  it  long  ago,  and  as  I  read, 

A  world  of  wonder  rose  before  my  eyes 
And  widened  into  vastness,  dimly  spread 
'Neath  solemn  skies. 

Beyond  the  page  my  emulous  desire 

Divined  the  marvels  of  unwritten  scenes,. — 
I  was  ambitious,  by  the  school-room  fire, 
Just  in  my  teens  ! 

Now,  though  the  book  has  faded  out  of  mind,. 

Though  all  that  dreamy  pageant  I  forget, 
Its  shadow  lingers,  vast  and  undefined, 
And  haunts  me  yet. 

The  far-off  glory  dies  in  pallid  gleams, — 

Cannot  a  yearning  sigh  the  flame  restore  ? 
Cannot  I  read  again,  and  dream  those  dreams 
Once  more, — once  more? 

1  First  published  in  the  Spectator  of  January  13,  1877. 

K  2 


1 32  A    CLOSED  BOOK 

Never.     The  child  has  passed  away,  the  book 

Is  closed,  and  'mid  my  childish  memories  laid, 
With  all  its  magic  in  it.     I  would  look, 
But  am  afraid. 

Men  do  not  name  it  'mid  immortal  works, 
And  laggard  Fame  is  slow  to  find  it  out. 
Perhaps.     And  yet  within  my  soul  there  lurks 
Something  of  doubt. 

How  if  the  visions  whose  dim  figures  thickened 

Round  me,  and  thronged  my  yet  unpeopled  air, — 
How  if  the  fear,  whereat  my  pulses  quickened, 
Should  not  be  there  ? 

How  if  the  shadow,  awful  in  its  gloom, 

Were   dwarfed   and    shrivelled    when  the   daylight 
dawned, — 
How  if  I  smiled  above  the  empty  tomb, — 
How  if  I  yawned  ? 

How  if  I  marvelled  to  myself,  and  him 

I  honoured  once  ?     Surely  the  Past  might  rise 
In  human  shape,  and  look  at  me  with  dim 
Reproachful  eyes, 


A    CLOSED  BOOK  133 

Because  for  his  enchantment  long  ago 
I  had  no  thanks  to  give  in  later  days, — 

0  dreams  that  flickered  in  the  firelight  glow, 

Be  his  your  praise  ! 

He  gave  my  fancy  wings,  and  in  its  flight, 

No  fault,  no  failure,  could  it  stoop  to  note  j 
Perhaps  I  read  the  book  he  meant  to  write, 
Not  that  he  wrote. 

Why  should  the  knowledge  that  in  awe  began 

Be  ended  now  in  laughter  barbed  with  pain  ? 
And  why  take  back  the  faith  that  never  can 
Be  given  again  ? 

No,  he  shall  keep  it  !     Do  not  draw  the  curtain, 
Let  my  dim  wonder  be  a  wonder  still, — 

1  will  not  read  it,— I  am  almost  certain 

I  never  will  ! 


134 


A   BIRTHDAY   WISH. 
(L.  A.  I.,  March  io,  1881.) 

1  Time  flies '  they  say.     Perhaps  it's  just  as  well 

To  watch  him  flying  and  not  wish  to  stay  him, —  . 
Especially  as  I  don't  know  the  spell 

That  could  delay  him  ! 

And  if  he  paused  'twould  trouble  folks  who  take 

A  yearly  due  of  rent,  and  rate  and  tax, 
And  might  confuse  the  thoughtful  souls  who  make 
Our  almanacks. 

No,  let  him  fly  !     But  as  he  hurries  on 

Would  he  but  hear  my  birthday  wish  !     He  should 
Take  nought  away  of  happiness  bygone, 

Bring  nought  but  good. 


A   BIRTHDAY    WISH  135 

He  should  not  point  to  memories  half  effaced, 
Nor  dole  the  sands  of  life  in  scanty  measure, 
Time,  like  an  eager  messenger,  should  haste 
To  do  your  pleasure. 

He  should  bring  hope  to  gladden  all  the  year, 

Hope  with  no  lingering  shadow  of  regret, 
And,  passing,  make  the  home  that  you  hold  dear 
Still  dearer  yet. 

He  should  not  change  the  friends  who  round  you  stand, 

But  added  names  upon  his  record  trace, 
The  circle  should  not  know  a  loosened  hand, 
A  missing  face. 

No  thought  of  sadness  should  his  passing  leave, 

No  !  evermore  so  lightly  should  he  fly 
That  only  by  his  gifts  could  you  perceive 

Time  had  gone  by. 

Ah  !  but  enough  of  this  !     I  fear  lest  you 

Should  laugh  at  foolish  thought  and  clumsy  rhyme. 
Foolish  ?     Perhaps.     But  that's  what  /  would  do 
If  I  were  Time  ! 


136 


A    CHRISTMAS   CARD. 

To  J.  P.   S. 

Ere  yet,  Old  Year,  sore  wounded  with  my  pain, 
You  go  from  out  the  Present  to  the  Past, 
I  charge  you  with  an  errand  for  the  last. 

Tell  her  my  Christmas  thoughts  are  hers  again, 
Tell  her,  O  year,  I  long  that  she  may  live 
Glad  in  all  gifts  that  all  good  years  can  give. 

And  if  hereafter  there  must  come  an  hour 
Heavy  with  loss  and  lengthened  out  in  sorrow, 
Black  with  the  night,  and  threatened  by  the  morrow, 

Tell  her  I  hope  that  even  that  may  flower 

With  loving  thought — may  bloom  for  her  no  less 

Than  mine  for  me  with  her  sweet  tenderness  ! 


»37 


A    CHRISTMAS   CARD. 

Sweet  Sister  mine,  I  fain  would  have  you  look 
Backward  on  life,  as  'twere  a  painted  book, 
And  turn  the  written  leaves  until  they  show 
Records  of  Christmas  Gladness  long  ago. 
Of  Christmas  holidays  and  Christmas  toys — 
The  waits — the  bells  that  woke  us  to  our  joys — 
Then  turn  beyond  those  pictures  bright  and  small 
To  the  vague  colours  that  precede  them  all. 
Yet  shall  you  never  find  the  whole  book  through, 
One  Christmas  earlier  than  my  love  for  you. 


i38 


A    CHRISTMAS  CARD. 
To  E.  I. 

1879  -1885. 

It  was  the  heart  of  summer  when 
I  knew  your  smile  and  greeting  first, 

And  though  the  years  have  fled  since  then, 
With  seasons  o'er  and  o'er  rehearsed, 

The  sunlight  of  that  day  remains. 

Tis  with  me  now,  through  fog  and  rime 
And  winter's  hail,  and  autumn's  rains 

Hold  something  of  that  summer-time. 

So  let  December  scowl  and  weep  ! 

May  you  in  charmed  brightness  live, 
And  ever,  ever,  may  you  keep 

The  sunny  gladness  that  you  give  ! 


139 


A   CHRISTMAS    CARD. 
To  E.  I. 

'Fair  thoughts  and  happy  hours  attend  you.' — Shakespeare. 

I  buy  my  card,  and  find  thereon 

Great  Shakespeare *s  self  good-will  expressing  ! 
And  that  prolific  scribe  '  Anon? 

The  best  of  hopes  to  you  addressing  ; 

I  yield  possession,  scarcely  loth, 

Since  I  can  slip  a  line  between, 
To  tell  you  I  defy  them  both 

To  say  ought  sweeter  than  I  mean  / 

1  May  Christmas  come  laden  with  every  blessing  ! ' 
December  1884. 


140 


BIS  CALENDAR.' 

(STEENIE.) 

Kindly  Fates  !  I  pray  you  hear  ! 

May  a  small  but  happy  star, 
Shining  through  the  joyous  year, 

Rule  his  little  calendar  ! 

May  his  days  be  marked  with  white — 
White  of  newly-fallen  snow, 

White  of  orchards,  for  delight 
Of  the  coloured  fruit  shall  grow. 

May  his  days  be  rose  and  green, 
With  the  blossom  and  the  leaf — 

Golden-bright  with  sunny  sheen, 
Never,  never  grey  with  grief. 

May  his  days  be  brightly  blue, 
Where  the  ocean  salt  is  wide, 

Ever  old  and  ever  new, 

Hurries  in  with  crested  tide. 

First  published  in  the  '  Bairn's  Annual,'  1887. 


HIS   CALENDAR 

Sweet  be  they  with  song  of  birds, 
Sweet  with  sound  of  falling  streams, 

Sweet  beyond  all  spoken  words, 
Beautiful  with  childish  dreams. 

Hence  !  all  shapes  of  angry  strife, 

Evil  Fortune,  stand  afar  ! 
Never  cloud  his  sunny  life, 

Never  blot  his  calendar  ! 


141 


142 


ONE   OF   THE  MULTITUDE. 

When  I  am  dead  ! 

When  all  my  world  of  thought 
Has  crumbled  into  nought, 
When  my  last  word  is  said, 
When  I  have  laid  me  down  upon  my  bed, 
And  shut  my  eyes  on  love  and  strife, 

On  woven  joys  and  pains — 
When  the  vast  tide  of  onward-rushing  life 
Has  ebbed  for  ever  from  my  shrunken  veins- 
O  God  !  how  will  it  be  when  I  am  dead  ? 

Above  my  head 
The  April  grass  will  grow, 
The  starry  daisies  blow, 
All  things  will  come  again, 
Blossom,  and  ripened  giain, 


ONE   OF    THE  MULTITUDE 

The  sun  will  shine,  the  wayward  wind  will  roam 
And  softly  fall  the  rain 
While  I  lie  low 
Beneath  the  far-off  blue  of  the  unchanging  dome. 

If  those  who  hold  me  dear, 

Who  loved,  and  love  me  yet, 
In  tender  memory,  and  mournful  fear, 
A  stone  above  my  burial-place  shall  set, 
To  tell  my  name  in  days  when  all  forget, 
Bright  Nature  shall  draw  near 
And,  smiling,  spoil 
The  record,  cut  with  melancholy  toil. 

Her  softly  busy  fingers  will  efface 

The  token  of  their  care. 

With  sun,  and  summer  showers, 

With  growth  of  moss  and  flowers, 
With  lichen  creeping  stealthily  apace, 

Will  she,  through  many  a  gliding  day  and  week, 
Unwearied — O  most  pitiless  and  fair  !  — 

Destroy  the  letters  dim,  the  latest  words  I  speak, 

Till  nought  remains  to  tell 
That  ever  I  have  lived,  who  loved  her  once  so  well ! 


143 


i44  ONE   OF   THE  MULTITUDE 

When  I  am  dead  ! — am  dead ! 
And  past  all  reach  of  hopes  and  fears, 
Before  some  loving  eyes 
My  face,  perhaps,  may  rise 
Seen  dimly  through  a  tender  mist  of  tears. 
My  memory  a  little  space  will  stand 
Upon  the  borders  of  the  living  land  ; 
Encircled  with  a  quiet  light 
Whose  gentle  rays 
Are  pale  reflections  from  my  sunlit  days. 

A  little  while  shall  I  remain, 
Calm,  with  a  calmness  nothing  can  destroy, 
A  shadow,  'mid  the  phantoms  of  my  pain, 
A  shadow,  'mid  the  phantoms  of  my  joy, 
And  then  the  light  must  wane. 


O  bitter  fate  —alas  ! 

Out  of  the  lives  I  love  my  life  must  pass, 

Must  slowly  fade  away. 
They  shall  be  sad — but  all  my  tears  are  shed  ! 
Shall  triumph — all  my  words  of  praise  are  said- 
Shall  hope — I  have  no  pressure  of  the  hand — 
Shall  dream — I  might  not  even  understand 

When  I  am  dead, 
And  newer  visions  come  in  old  hopes'  stead. 


ONE   OF   THE  MULTITUDE 

And  if,  when  I  am  gone, 

Some  words  of  mine  live  on, 
They  shall  be  only,  in  the  world's  great  day, 
Like  a  brief  echo  that  from  far  away 

Comes  with  familiar  sound. 
It  wavers  to  and  fro  between  the  hills 
Above,  around, 

The  silent  air  it  fills 
With  lonely  speech  that  knows  no  change, 

But  wanders,  clear  and  strange, 
And  has  no  help  of  living  lips  or  eyes. 
A  little  while  the  sound  may  go  and  come 

Though  he  who  uttered  it  be  dumb, 
A  little  while  it  lingers  ere  it  dies. 

Thus  shall  it  chance  to  me 

In  ages  yet  to  be, 
There  shall  remain  no  trace  on  land  or  sea, 
Nor  in  the  memory  of  any  friend, 
But  they  and  it  shall  surely  have  an  end. 

Better  it  should  be  so, 

Better  that  all  should  go  ; 
I  have  been  glad  to  breathe  the  summer  air, 
And  I  have  lived,  rejoicing  in  the  sun, 
But  when  my  gladness  in  the  world  is  done, 


M5 


i. 


146  ONE   OF   THE  MULTITUDE 

Shall  I  desire  to  leave  my  shadow  there  ? 
Shall  I  repine  that  all  my  thought  and  care 

Must  needs  be  hid 
Within  the  narrow  grave  where  I  have  made  my  bed  ? 
Why  do  I  fear  oblivion  ?     God  forbid 
That  Nature  should  be  conscious  of  the  dead  ! 

Then  should  the  clouds  o'erhead, 

Weaving  a  sable  pall, 

Hang  gloomily  and  low, 

Burdened  with  hopeless  woe. 

Then  mournfully  should  fall 

The  slowly  dropping  showers 

Upon  the  silent  earth — 
An  earth  that  had  no  heart  to  deck  herself  with 
flowers. 

The  wildly  flowing  streams 

Of  song  birds  rippling  mirth, 
Should  die  in  lamentations,  or  should  grow 
To  sad  complaining,  as  in  restless  dreams. 

Across  the  misty  height — 

In  brief  and  melancholy  gleams 

Where  the  dark  veil  was  torn — 
The  ghastly  sun  should  hurry,  pale  and  shorn, 
To  hide  his  aching  eyes  within  the  gloom 

And  blackness  of  his  tomb. 


ONE  OF  THE  MULTITUDE  147 

So  should  he  yield  his  empire  to  the  Night, 

And  stars  should  burn  on  high, 
Sad  funeral  tapers  in  the  hollow  sky. 
The  weary  wind  should  wander  and  complain, 

Seeking  the  dead,  in  vain, 

Yearning  in  helpless  pain. 
The  withered  reeds  should  whisper  by  the  meres; 
The  dry  leaves  cling  to  every  summer  tree, 

Recalling  bygone  years  j 
And  all  the  heavy  waters  of  the  sea 

Should  be  most  bitter  tears. 

Not  so  !     For  Nature  lives 
Untroubled — with  full  hands  her  bounty  gives, 
Nor  heeds  the  generations  she  has  nursed. 

But,  while  we  come  and  go 

Like  tides  that  ebb  and  flow, 
Wears,  though  her  children  die,  the  smile  she  wore  at 
first. 

Our  fellow- men  forget  us.     Should  we  ask 

In  their  remembrance  to  remain, 

An  aching  sense  of  loss  and  pain, 
An  added  burden  in  their  daily  task, 

A  yearning,  sad  as  vain  ? 
O  God  forbid  !     When  the  mysterious  veil 


i48  OXE   OF   THE  MULTITUDE 

Shall  fall  behind  us,  not  to  rise  again, 
Let  memory  giow  pure,  and  sweet,  and  pale, 
Then  let  it  fail. 

For  even  now  too  many  tears  are  wept, 

Too  many  sighs  make  sad  the  summer's  breath, 

Too  many  buds  enfold  a  gnawing  death, 

Throughout  this  world  of  ours. 
Too  many  nights  pass,  and  we  have  not  slept, 
Too  many  days  have  heavy-footed  hours  j 

Therefore  do  I  accept, 

Well  satisfied  at  heart, 
Oblivion,  which  shall  one  day  be  my  part. 

But  there  are  summers  past, 

Dim  years  of  long  ago, 
Lost  in  the  shadow  that  the  ages  cast 

Of  which  we  nothing  know, 

Since  in  the  world  of  men 

Live  none,  were  living  then, 
And  none  have  made  a  record  of  those  days, 
But  silently  they  sped,  with  all  their  blame  and  praise. 

Yet  may  we  say,  although 
We  nothing  know, 
That  those  dim  summers,  vanished  long  ago, 


ONE   OF  THE  MULTITUDE  149 

Had  silver  twilight  hours — 
All  the  broad  splendour  of  the  noonday  glow — 

The  joy  of  flowers. 
That  they  had  hyacinth  and  eglantine, 
June  roses,  with  their  perfect  petals  curled 
Over  a  heart  of  sweetness,  dewy  pearled  ; 
And  lilies  tall  and  white,  and  purple-clustered  vine. 

O  blossoms  sweet  and  far, 
Which  were,  and  are  not,  yet  for  ever  are  ! 
Leaves  which  no  eyes  of  ours  have  seen, 

Which  long  ago  were  shed, 

Forgotten,  withered,  dead, 
Yet  live  for  ever  in  undying  green ! 

Is  there  no  place  for  me  ? 

Would  that  my  life  might  be, 
In  the  great  future  that  is  drawing  near, 
Like  a  forgotten  flower,  in  a  foi gotten  year  ! 


USE 

OM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEP1. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


